If I Were To Close My Eyes
by LuvEwan
Summary: After Obi-Wan is returned from nearly seven month's captivity, Qui-Gon is seized by an intense fear that affects both their lives. COMPLETE.
1. The Panic in Me

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If I Were To Close My Eyes

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By LuvEwan

(pg)

summary: After Obi-Wan is returned from nearly seven month's captivity, Qui-Gon is seized by an intense fear. Written in narrative from Qui-Gon's perspective.

(angst/drama)

main characters: Obi-Wan Kenobi, Qui-Gon Jinn (A real surprise there, huh?)

disclaimer: pssst…I've got a secret. George Lucas is really a short, seventeen year old girl who hates plaid and makes absolutely no profit whatsoever.

DEDICATED TO my readers, as always. You instill a desire to write within me, thanks to your constant support. You don't understand how deeply I appreciate it, and since there are no words to tell you all, I hope you'll know through this. If I didn't receive the kind words and helpful comments you provide, I would not only be less of a writer, these stories would most likely remain tucked away in my computer or my head. Wait…maybe that would be a good thing…

…..

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What am I to do

If I don't have you? -Paul McCartney

…..

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One: The Panic in Me

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I'm not going. I don't need to. I already checked. I already checked twice. Three times…Four?

I flip onto my side, tucking the pillow beneath my head and clenching my eyes shut.

I try to quiet my mind, hush the incessant little voice that repeats, over and over, that I should check on him.

Just a glance into his room--only to be certain he's alright.

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That he's really there.

A soft snort at my absurdity.

I'm reminded of Tahl, walking fluidly along the row of tiny beds in the dimly lit creche, her honey-tan skin caressed by invading moonlight.

I asked her why she performed the nightly ritual of crouching beside each slumbering infant and toddler, lingering in their innocent, guileless presence, ruffling their feathery hair.

With twinkling jade eyes, she'd say:

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"Who can watch over such precious lives without…making sure?"

I admit I couldn't fully understand her motivations then. A young, famously (or infamously, I suppose you could argue) rebellious Knight has little in way of paternal tendencies, and absolutely no talent for that sort of intuition.

But now…_Gods_ I can comprehend her words.

I feel the tingle in my stomach, the tightness that seems to bind my lungs until I can't gather a breath.

And I have the same powerful impulse to stop beside his bed, to wait for his warm breath to meet my palm.

If I resist, if I force myself to remain lying here, the pillow turns to stone under me. The air grows cold, restless, _disdainful_

I sometimes think I'll go mad. 

Initially, after reclining on the duvet and settling in the mild comfort of weariness receded, I'll drift. I meditate on the closing day, the events and thoughts passed taking on a blurry incoherence as my senses slightly dull…

Then, a harmless image from the recent hours will enter my mind. A parry during an intense spar, when he stumbled backward due to a lethargic reaction, a chagrined smile splitting his face.

I smiled in turn…

But lying in my bed, the memory is a haze that twists, that mutates.

Until I see him huddled in the healing ward, tears cascading down his cheeks, a patch secured over one eye.

My heart contracts at the scene, moisture spiking in my own eyes.

Yet, that isn't the end. It isn't ever the end.

I could take it if it didn't go beyond that. I could endure the remnant of his suffering, as I have the course of our partnership, if it were to stop there.

But no. _No._

Visions are painted in morbid color in my periphery. I watch him being stolen…being taken away….while I…while I…

Slept in oblivion, a matter of feet from him. 

At the time, I was unable to hear the hoarse, cruel curses of the criminals (_Demons. I can't deny that…Why would I want to?)_ As he was being abducted from the safety and assurances of our room, I was probably snoring. So I have imagined the sounds that roughly permeated the silence.

I can only invent the startled gasp that must have fallen from his slack lips.

Naturally I was told there could be no fault placed on my shoulders.

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"You were drugged, Master Jinn. What could you have done?"

What I could have done…

There's something that's become the bitter locus of my soul. Slowly, from the moment I discovered his disappearance, it stalked like a vehement beast within me, hungering for an answer that could provide satisfaction.

Perhaps I could have declined the drinks. Refused the beverages, with their ruby red color. A shade that I can detect _everywhere_ now. There's an entire cluster of flowers in the Garden stained identically. Yesterday, while we strolled the pebble-lined paths, I tore a few of the taunting blooms from the stems, then couldn't create an excuse when Obi-Wan inquired, a bit uncomfortably, why I did it. 

But he pressed me no further, continuing the companionable trek in quiet.

With every step he took, I was whispering my feverish gratitude to the Force.

I could've turned down the mission, or noticed the effects of the drugs sooner…Hell, I could've Force-sealed him in a closet.

But I did none of those things.

As a reward, I was given seven months, endless days and torturous hours to consider my awful, foolish, stupid, dangerous mistakes.

Then, for added torment, these thoughts of a shrouded figure crawling through his window, their coarse hands jerking his head…

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Oh Force.

And so each night, this being no exception, I throw the blankets aside and wrap my robe around my thin sleep clothes.

My paces quicken; I hasten down the thickly shadowed corridor. 

I reach his room. By now my blood has frozen in the veins. Horrific possibilities flash through my frenzied mind.

When I finally pass the threshold, I'm convinced the worst has happened. The scream is already rising in my throat. A trembling hand is straying to the lightsaber hanging from my waist. 

But then---I see him.

Curled up in the center of the bed, a quilt draped over his shoulders. His auburn braid is woven through several fingers, held against his jawline, snaking down his neck.

Muted saffron spills from the strip of midnight peeking out from the parted drapes, and falls in a gentle band across his face, casting shadow beneath a ginger curtain of lashes.

In a brief burst of selfishness, I wish those eyes would open, so I could see the vibrant life gleaming in his crisp azure gaze.

My hand hovers above the peaceful visage, catching the heat of a measured, dreamy exhale.

How I treasure it above…_anything._

I don't really notice the shaky quality of my breaths, too absorbed by the sweet relief seeping into my soul.

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He's okay. Nothing happened. Everything's fine. Look around--nothing. See? Nothing.

I stand in the darkened room, staring down at the culmination of my life…

And this time, I simply cannot bring myself to leave him. I cannot return to the ghosts and terror and eternal wondering of my quarters.

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I…can't.

I pull up his desk chair beside the couch, resigned to another night spent in sleepless, desperate vigil.

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	2. What If?

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Two: What If…?

Tonight will be different.

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I swear it will be. 

Since this morning, when I shuffled stiffly from his bedroom as he began to awaken, I've repeated the declaration.

While rubbing my dry, aching eyes, I made the silent promise. As I lathered my hair for the second time (_Isn't it funny how one can so easily forget the first?)_ the decision was reached.

It isn't that the fear has left me. Far from it. If it were possible, if I could accomplish it without raising any eyebrows (_or questions of my sanity)_ I'd knock down the blasted wall that separates our quarters. Then there'd be no need to sit in the dead silence, night after night, guarding against unseen enemies. Because he'd be so much closer then--

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How close was he when they took him?

The truth impales me, and a great frustration wells inside. 

What solutions can there _be_?

Protecting him is my purpose. For awhile, in the tender beginning, that wasn't nearly as clear to me. I didn't regard him as a miracle then…not until he performed one of his own.

After all, curing blindness, in any form, is remarkable.

In the early stages of our partnership, I shielded him from bodily harm, of course. It was the core duty of a Jedi-to preserve life-and I performed what was necessary of a Master. What the Council expected me to do.

But I…I didn't do what _he_ expected me to do.

What was necessary of a friend.

Or father.

I gulp down a lump in my throat.

Hmm. I guess these recollections of mine are hard to swallow.

I might've laughed at such a coincidence--_before._ Today, I can detect no humor in it. As I think further, I realize that lately I've found little cause to smile or chuckle.

Unless he is laughing. Through him, I can. Even if it's a mere smirk tugging at his lips.

Otherwise, the Universe is a place rampant with dangers, dark corners, threats. Degenerates that would slit a throat if only to watch the resulting line of blood drip.

And _damn it_. I'm doing it again.

He's sitting in the living area, on the worn-out, battered couch that used to resemble Calliamian caramel in color, but has faded considerably.

I don't mind.

If it were to look pristine and untouched, it'd be a stale, emotionless piece indeed.

With its various stains and creases and one very noticeable rip, one can tell that there is someone who leans on the overstuffed arms, who dozes on the soft cushions after a marathon viewing of dramatic (_and romantic, I always tease_) holo vids, the bowl of sticky sweets still clutched in two equally sticky hands. 

Someone who occasionally runs across it, or leaps over it, much to the counterfeit fury of his Master. 

This evening that someone is pressed into the sofa's corner, engrossed in an old historical tome that once belonged to my teacher, then to me.

And, though I haven't confirmed it aloud yet, he knows the dusty book will be a new fixture on the shelf in his room. Not a permanent one, for when he has a Padawan of his own the tradition will be continued.

But that won't be for quite awhile. 

A fool's comfort, I acknowledge, as I study his face from the kitchen unit, where I'm preparing dinner. The countenance retains a boyish quality, due to the roundness of his cheeks and the spiky hairstyle, but his eyes carry a fierce maturity, an intelligence that sets him apart. 

The child-like features have helped me elude what I know is looming. The incredible talents, though, work constantly to destroy that.

I've taught him well, Yoda tells me on occasion, usually after viewing an impressive kata performance, or watching him interact with a group of adoring, wide-eyed initiates. 

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"Much to learn he still has, Master Qui-Gon. But, in young Kenobi already, I see the brilliance of a great Knight."

What pride I feel when I hear such praise, especially when it's the hard-earned sentiment of an oft-reserved, cryptic little troll.

Yes, I've trained him to be a warrior, a mediator, maybe even a savior. 

But in the years it's taken, I've surpassed the role of mentor to him.

As a father, standing here observing him as he peers closer at a passage, I don't want him to go.

And in the Jedi mindset, it's the worst betrayal of my own specific obligations. The goal of a Master is simple: to train a Padawan until they are sufficiently skilled to obtain Knighthood. The Code dictates it as black and white.

Oh, but I can't stay within those strident limits, not when there is a swirling melange of color to behold. Beyond the deepest dark and purest light, I can see a shimmering palate of reds, greens…blue.

Blue when he glances up at me, shining blue. "Master, how old do you think this is?"

I pause, considering. "Well, it's at least as old as my Master, so…I'd say a century or so."

He grins widely at that, and laughs a rich, velvet, slightly uneven laugh he only uses in moments of inhibition. 

I smile before forcing my gaze to return to grating cheese, knowing that I would gladly listen to that sound for much longer than it lasted. 

Maybe---Maybe to make up for the months where this atmosphere was devoid of his warmth, and his silvery chuckles were a memory.

I know that he couldn't have had reason to laugh during his captivity. 

So I hope that he cherishes it now, as I do.

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Because who knows how long we have…He can never be safe. There'll always be something…There'll always be something.

And I can't help but look up at him again, caressing the auburn spikes and creased forehead without a touch. My hands are quivering as badly as my heart.

What if we never have another evening of this peace?

What if this is the calm before another storm?

The moment of normalcy that leads into _total, gut-wrenching_ chaos.

The metal grater slips from my fingers, clattering to the counter.

His voice lifts from the silence, concerned.

"Master, is anything wrong? Do you need some help?"


	3. My Enemy

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I, uh, actually forgot to post this at this site. It was written a few weeks ago. J I have another post nearly completed, so it shouldn't be long until the next update. -LuvEwan

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Three: My Enemy

The extent of my failure sometimes astounds me.

For I cannot so much as fulfill a promise made to myself.

Not even for one night. 

The thick book held his attention for hours, and I often stole glances at him, watching him run his fingers along the ridge of uneven, gold-edged pages as he read.

Occasionally, he'd mouth the words, so completely engrossed by whatever battle account or controversial betrothal described on the aged parchment.

I thought then, at that moment, that the volume, regardless of all the use it had prior to that night, _belonged_ to Obi-Wan.

He was meant to have it.

The two who owned it before…

I guess you'd say were keeping it warm for whom it was ultimately intended. 

He's asleep now, face turned toward the sofa and an arm hanging off the side, fingers brushing on a corner of the book.

Before, I would've switched off the lights, covered him with a blanket, then headed to my room. 

A lot of things were done differently--before.

When certain worries were present, but bearably distant, and my door didn't resemble that of a jail cell, steel and deadlocked, sealing me off…

A sharp tingle in my chest, and I press my hand there fleetingly.

Well, at the very least there's a change of scenery. Instead of tan loops of carpet, shadow pooled in the folds of drapes and the fading red paint of a long ago-assembled model starship, my eyes are transfixed by the various trinkets that decorate the main room. 

Holocubes scattered around, a half-melted candle, an embroidered pillow from a thankful (and very obstinate) storekeeper, who wouldn't accept my refusal of the gift after I intercepted a burglar, a few plaques commemorating various achievements.

And then there's the small painting that adorns the space above the alcove. Too high and far for my taste, but placed there at the insistence of the artist himself. 

It's a landscape piece, composed of quick brushes in pastel hues, and depicts a thick forest at sunset. 

He labored at it as a much younger student, only fourteen with a less practiced hand. He hates it with a passion.

But I can see past the occasional misplaced stroke. The raised lines of paint create an amazing texture, and I often couldn't resist touching the dapples of blurred ivy or shroud of dark evergreen. 

It's beautiful, and the fact that it contains elements of a novice only enhances that beauty, and endears it to me. 

But something I can't love about it is the streaking of violet and diluted orange in a charcoal sky. 

Night is coming upon the fictitious land. And as silly as it sounds, I'm disturbed by the thought. Shadows will descend, the crystal brook will become murky, a darkness concealing whatever hides below the waves.

Coruscant is a controlled environment, but nothing can direct the flow of hours. Day gives way to night.

I can't stop that.

He sighs sleepily, rolling onto his back, drawing me from the tormenting reverie. 

He looks innocent now, softly colored lashes swept downward, mouth slightly open. 

I can almost masquerade the truth once more, with this tender scene to help me, convince myself there are years to come. 

But my thoughts are distracted by that painting, the twilight created by his fingers.

Maybe he realized, in his quick, bright way, what I am just learning, and wanted the inadvertent reminder far from sight. 

In so many ways, night is the enemy.

It is the uncertainty, the phantom, a shelter for evil.

It is the end.


	4. That Which Refuses to Fade

Thank you all so much for the reviews. I'll try to get more up soon. LE

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Four: That Which Refuses to Fade

The sun is slowly rising, stretching burning, golden beams across the clusters of buildings. The sky bleeds mandarin into pale yellow, with faint whispers of pink beneath. 

Day's at the brink of full birth. Soon all the blinking signs would be switched on throughout the lower levels, street vendors pulling their tattered little carts into the dawning light, still wiping remnants of sleep from their eyes. Waitresses with tired faces and immutable frowns, smoothing out the wrinkles in aged uniforms as they head toward another grinding shift. 

For most in that sector, life is one of hand-to-mouth, the only certainty being fear, that during the coming hours they would stumble, the weariness would catch up with them and a plate would shatter, their fragile stability along with it. 

The worst part wasn't the loss of that balance--it was the constant worry that stayed with them, that would steal just a shred of any smile they managed. 

Maybe some could be happy, but as I look out the window, the glass warming from the ever-ascending sun, I understand that they _couldn't possibly _know true happiness.

Because there was always that niggling feeling, wasn't there? 

That little tingle in their stomach that grew, that evolved with each passing day, from a minor concern to the awful center of their existence. 

Yes, from a poke in the side to a jab in the stomach. 

And gods, what bruises the latter left.

I turn away from the early morning scene, rubbing at my haggard face. As I run my fingers through my beard, I notice the strands are a bit longer.

Hm. I guess I haven't been paying attention to my grooming. _Force, old man, you probably embarrass him to death._

My eyes drop to Obi-Wan, his own eyes shielded by a forearm.

I smirk. _Anything to put off the inevitable just a fraction longer._ I would've closed the drapes, to give him a few more minutes of slumber, but I don't want…

I don't want him to. I want him awake, and alert, and aware…and with me. 

A bird emits a shrill, chirping cacophony, and he stirs, sighing under his breath.

It seems he's taking this chance to exercise some rebellion--despite my wishes, he remains blissfully oblivious to the waking world.

I brush my hand across his cheek, touching on the slightly purplish spot just below his left eye before moving down to his mouth, where a section of his upper lip is puffed a bit.

Scars from his captivity, my mind supplies through a sudden numbness.

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Badges of endurance. That's what the healers like to call them, while sponging cold disinfectant on a lingering wound, a lesion that clings to the body with stubborn resilience. 

A badge of endurance, eh?

I touch the slightly marred flesh of his lip, and I can still see how swelled it was, blotched with blue and burgundy, so terribly painful to behold.

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Badge of endurance…Reminder of suffering.

Perhaps I shouldn't think such a thing. He needs me to be supportive, to be optimistic.

Maybe he wants me to forget, as he's surely trying to do.

But how, oh how am I supposed to let it go?

How it is possible to wrench the fear from my grasp and throw it away? How can I disregard the terrible thoughts that materialize in my head?

The masked figure waiting patiently behind his door…behind a corner…behind _me…_

I wheel around with a gasp, a shocked sound that dies silently in my throat.

The apartment's motionless, with the pure incandescence of tender daylight hovering around everything. The sinister wash of darkness is gone.

I try to convince myself that my consternation should go along with it, twin horrors dissipated, making way for the work that must be done, that _should_ be done, without the strange, painful shivers up my spine and the crazy impulses that tell me he should walk just a bit closer, that I should skip that errand, since it was never that important to begin with…

Here, inside the thick steel walls of the Temple, within our apartment, he is the safest.

And even so, threats remain, like shadowy wraiths skirting through the halls, through my mind.

How can I risk him?

I lay my palm against his cheek, rubbing the ghost of a contusion beneath his closed eye with my thumb.

How could I ever…

His eyes flutter open, then squeeze shut, a muffled noise-a grumble, to be precise-coming from him.

I retract my hand. "Sorry, Padawan. I didn't mean to hurt you."

Obi-Wan allows his eyes to focus, accepting the fact he is awake, but only begrudgingly so. A loose smile graces his face. "Hmm…no…it doesn't hurt so much anymore."

I wish I could feel the same. "I'm glad to hear it." I ruffle his hair, projecting a serenity I certainly don't possess. "Did you sleep well?"

He nods, stretching his legs beneath the blanket. "Did you?"

I'd like to be honest with him, to blurt out all I've held so tight within my heart, to maybe alleviate some of the exhaustion--

But it wouldn't alleviate anything within _him_. 

Besides, what would it solve? The dangers wouldn't disappear, the worry wouldn't die.

He'd just have more weight thrust on him. 

So I smile. "Of course."

And, if for only another day, he believes me. 


	5. Surprise

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Five: Surprise

It was an intense spar, the sort that he loves. The ones full of unexpected moves, quick twists and clean, nearly inhuman leaps overhead. We know each other's style very well, of course, but every single parry and strike can't be anticipated. Spars are very often a way to employ surprise, to the benefit of one and the stupefaction of the other. 

The Jedi life in general has its own brand of surprises, I've decided.

Those that are _definitely_ unwanted, shocking and shaking and shattering--

There I go again. Really, I had no intention of veering off onto that sour note. But more and more, it's as if I haven't control of where my mind leads me. Or where it stalls, usually in a disturbing, cold place I don't want to linger.

No. I grab the reigns, give them a little snap.

As much as sleep is a danger, so is a wandering mind.

Alright…The kind of surprise I relish within this Order and its methods is the moment when a student is surprised by _himself_. When Obi-Wan completes a creative melding of several katas during the course of a battle (it matters little if that battle is faux), or makes that connection between two vital factors in a mission, all without expecting it. I can't rightly describe the beauty. 

Today, he experiences such a moment, ducking a swipe of my blade while simultaneously spinning, in something very close to a blur, to tag me from behind, then knocking the saber from my hands to finish.

He's never done that before, I realize breathlessly, and with a tingle of pride.

As we head for the empty stands, where our belongings are waiting, neither of us mention the new feat. Nothing has changed in the gold-tinted landscape of his face, but something _is_ different, nevertheless, when I glance at him from the side of my towel. 

I said that the Jedi have their personally labeled surprises, and it's true, in several respects. Accepting fresh inductees into their hallowed halls, the Council really has only a vague sense of that child's future, at best. Even Master Yoda, the sage and center of the group, can't determine exactly what tomorrow holds for them. 

But one aspect is certain, from the time that little bundle is carried through the massive front doors: Much of their childhood has been robbed from them. The light sweep of youth, the joys and carelessness of early life, is not available to the initiates. They have their fun, of course, their playful interactions with their peers and once in awhile the embrace of a creche Master, but they never have the same chances as those raised outside the Temple.

Because there are behaviors that must be drilled out of them, lest they grow and distract the child. Unusually strong attachments, overly long flights of fancy… The list is long, I can assure you.

Not that the Council is aiming to create a flesh model of a Jedi droid. And even if that _were_ their goal, there are some that simply can't be programmed.

I'm aware that Obi-Wan would act marginally different if he weren't apprenticed to the Order, that there are sections of his character that have been locked away, or at the least, stifled. 

But there is a euphoria within that boy when he grips his lightsaber, poised for a match and sharply focused, that can _never_ be subsided by the efforts of anyone. The Council, and their Jedi ancestors, I'm certain, don't want such passion involved. Serenity, that's what they guide their students toward. In fact, passion is not favored on any level, not in a battle situation.

But Obi-Wan is, above all, a passionate person. There's no question about that. To ask him to take up his weapon without feeling a remnant of anything would be akin to asking him to breathe in deep, black space.

It's not natural. It's impossible. 

I know that in the past, I frowned upon him for what I perceived to be a grievous flaw. I'd sense emotion, stirrings in his mind, when I thought there should be none, when I was convinced he should be still.

I perceived it as anger.

He felt it as communing with the Force, reaching for it, and feeling it surround him, lift him, caress him. 

Roughly ten years later, Obi-Wan reacts the same way, with an almost child-like appreciation.

I think maybe the Council wasn't _too_ surprised by that.

But I certainly was. 

Obi-Wan loves the thrill of a spar, not for the clash of blade, not even for the clash of wills, but for the harmonious connection with the Force. 

It's evident that he's spoken with it today, and it heard him well.

I pause while unscrewing the cap of my water container.

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He's learning more and more.

He's getting closer and closer to---

I have to clear my throat before I can swallow.

I'm reminded of the threat of stray thought, and shake my head briskly, drying my damp hair.

Then I move forward and give his shoulder a squeeze. "Let's go eat, Padawan."

He nods with a smile, but I notice his eyes settle on me a few seconds longer, before falling.

I remember when he was younger, and the prospect of dining was enough to send a brilliance to his face and a quickness to his step.

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He's not so young anymore.

Yes, surprises seem to be everywhere.


	6. On Guard

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Thanks to those who are reading and replying. It means so much to me. -LuvEwan

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Six: On Guard

The cafeteria is always teeming with life forms. At any given hour, well, waking hour anyway, there'll be at least a handful of Jedi seeking a hot meal or hot mug of caffe. Outside this spanning room, most time is dedicated to study and physical practice. Padawans remain with their Masters or various instructors.

But when they reach the dining hall, there's an unspoken freedom. Old friends gather at tables, while the younger sector trickle away from their teachers to form clusters-I refuse to say 'cliques'- in which to chat, laugh and eat.

I glimpse Bant and Garen seated with their trays loaded. Padawan Muln joined a special flight unit of the Order, and is rarely at the main Temple anymore. I know how close he is to my apprentice, the tightly knit bond between them. One wouldn't need to be informed of their lifelong fraternity to know that--both sets of eyes dance with laughter, the refreshed memory of a thousand shared jokes, before they ever speak a word to each other. If the Jedi are lucky enough to be considered family to Obi-Wan, then Garen is, without a scrap of doubt, his brother. I expect then for Obi-Wan to join the two friends with his usual eagerness (I think he talks more than he ever eats) but instead, he stays at my side after we finish assembling our meals. 

I can't say that I'm disappointed, nowhere _near_ that, and I weave through the maze of benches and tables, choosing a spot against the wall. This is no flippant decision either--when you're on constant alert, it's a small relief to have one less direction to monitor.

It's right at the peak of day and characteristically busy. A mixture of aromas run thick and warm in the air. Stew is prevalent, maybe because it's the main dish on my own plate, but there's also the steam of vegetables and the sweet scent of baked bread. The din of clattering utensils and swell of voices reaches a high level. I have to wonder if everyone has followed my Padawan's example, and foregone their food entirely in favor of loud conversation.

Rather ridiculous, I think. If something happened, who could hear over the noise? 

The jittery panic almost reaches my heart, but I grip my glass, forcing the energy to my fingers instead. 

__

Gods, why would anything happen here_?_

I wait for a rational voice to respond, to assure the illogical side of my brain that nothing _could_ happen. To counter, in a calm, slightly irritated tone, that tragedy struck in countless places, but never here, for Force's sake, in the damn Temple _cafeteria_! 

But I'm given no negation.

I look up at Obi-Wan. He spears a chunk of tangy fruit, then twists the fork, spreading droplets of juice around his plate, but never bringing the morsel to his mouth. His eyes are fixed on some spot on the floor. This isn't so unusual. As much as he can surrender to silly, enthusiastic behavior, he can become an introvert, speaking very little, consumed by his thoughts and unaffected by his surroundings. Even as a restless, impulsive child, he's done this. I won't lie and say this never unsettled me. It's quite puzzling to see a boy with limbs too gangly for his body and strikingly innocent eyes, a sprite too tender yet to understand many aspects of nature and life, who can delve so deeply into his private realm of thought, and create an expression of utter intensity and maturity on his face.

He's older, and he still can project that visage. But now, it leaves lines that make him appear…_too_ weathered. 

I think this is a sign of worry. He takes after me in that way. Brooding. But he's not the pacing back and forth, wear a ring in the carpet sort. He's silent, motionless in his apprehension. Which is why he can elude those who would offer him comfort.

Another similarity between us. We hold our pain away from others--or we try.

This is fine for _me._ The concerns that plague me are my own, as they should be. 

But him…I brush my hand against his, bringing him up from the dregs of his reverie. _HE shouldn't have to suffer in quiet. _"How is it?"

An impressive opener, I know. 

He smiles. "Good." He's about as eloquent as I am this afternoon, but the word is almost elegant when tinged by his cultured, distinct accent. 

I'm tempted to ask why he didn't seek out Bant and Garen, if he even saw them among the throng of eaters, but I'd rather be clueless to that than have to guard him from a further distance. It's better for him to be near. Better that I hear clearly that dulcet voice. 

He takes a short drink, then "How is _your_ food, Master?"

I suddenly find that in my analysis of his missing appetite, I've completely neglected my own. "Same as always." I answer with a chuckle, taking a quick bite. "Does it ever really change?"

Obi-Wan smiles again, seeming a bit eased by conversation. "No, unfortunately."

I laugh at that--maybe harder than was warranted, if only to push back the silence.

The sun streams through a high window, and sets his coppery hair a fair, glowing color…

And merciful Force, the angle is just so precise, hits him with a painful exactness…

Mere hours before he was…he was taken, we attended a stuffy buffet as guests of the newly reinstated President, on the planet Ejhlon. We had aided in uncovering an impeachment process as fraudulent, conducted without moral motive.

The Vice President was not among us that night, awaiting arraignment for his instrumental part in the crime. 

After a grateful, ardent speech from the leader thanking us for our help, we were assailed with decadence. Tender, expensive meats, rich desserts and sparkling wines, all at our disposal. 

Once we were seated, Obi-Wan began to laugh good-naturedly at the extremity of the man's appreciation.

I explained that he couldn't lawfully repay us, so the meal was his form of reciprocation.

__

"Well, even if we WERE allowed to accept payment, I think I'd rather have this." He grinned, and stuffed half a crisp, buttered croissant in his mouth. 

I alternated between being mortified by his slip in manners and amused by the deliberate exaggeration. 

The sun was beating down on the outdoor party, circumfusing him with warm light, especially at the gold-dappled tips of his hair. 

Much like it is now.

I couldn't have known then, how could I have? 

Things were going smoothly. The food was delicious, the talk was light and injected with bouts of laughter. When the final pair of drinks were presented to us, I accepted them without thought, even…

__

Oh stars…Even handing him his tumbler of juice and crushed ice. 

But he didn't sense the danger either.

__

He wasn't a Master, though, was he?

No new revelations. On the contrary, I've agonized over each moment since that morning I woke to an aching neck and an empty room. 

But no matter how many times I've considered the events of that day, it still hurts as sharply as the first. 

I can't chase the pain away. I need it to be with me, _within _me, cutting at my heart and clenching in my chest. 

So that I don't fail again.

So he can feel the sun, as he is now, and not the chill of captivity.

There's no guarantee that something will happen, while we sit here feigning an interest in our dishes, but I've learned the opposite is also true: I have no promise that something won't. 


	7. Pressure

Thanks to everyone who reviewed. It's wonderful to hear from you. -LuvEwan

****

Seven: Pressure

The bubbles rise from the darkening depths, tiny orbs tinted tea-brown, riding the unstable surface a few seconds before popping wetly, to be replaced in an instant by another frothy barrage. 

It will go on this way, boiling, popping, steaming, until removed from the instigating heat. 

But if it stays on the red-glow base, nothing else can halt the cycle. The conflagration will grow, vibrating from the bottom, forcing more and more of the bubbles upward. They'll cluster and well toward the lip, the fury of flame ever beneath them. Eventually, it will be too much. The blistered moisture will spill over, first a dribble, then a stream.

And the kettle will be empty then. Drained. Spent. Perhaps even warped by the pressure.

But the heat will still be there, to attack what's left, to burn the cracking carcass.

I remove the tea from the stove top, glancing once, then twice, over my shoulder as I do so.

__

Gods…WHY is he out there?

I fish out two mugs from the cupboard, my eyes itching to make a third wandering. The brew is strong-we share that preference, I think-and I pour it to the top of both tumblers. 

__

It's too cold out there.

My fingers close around the warm handles. 

__

It's cold and he's just in a ratty pair of stockings. How did I raise such a foolish…Padawan? Padawan.

I cross the main room with a briskness that sloshes the tea. The balcony is a combination of moonlight planes, reserved blues and yellows, overlapped by shadow. His shadow.

He's perched on a lounge chair, knees drawn to his chest. Turned away from me, I can't tell where his eyes are, if they're fastened to the black sky or drifting along the towering map of dark buildings. 

I walk out into the night and cool air swirls around my face.

He cranes his neck, sensing my arrival (or maybe, too, my approach).

His eyes seem to reflect the somber hues of the deck, gray and cobalt, lined by lightly-colored lashes. 

"Here," I say, doing my best to be casual while worrying at the limited protection he has out here, in public air, the ledge open and too low, so vulnerable…

He takes it with quietly voiced gratitude, sipping as he waits.

Waits for me, I know. I settle on the adjacent, fold-out chair, and only then does he _gradually _return to his previous position. 

I take a drink, feeling the warmth spread in my tightly coiled, frozen belly.

I see that both my predictions were incorrect.

Obi-Wan, in fact, doesn't appear to be looking at anything. His mouth rests on the mug's porcelain edge, his luminous eyes unfocused. 

Still, I wonder what he sees.

And hope, hope to the Force, he doesn't see what _I _do, behind the false, unaffected film over my eyes.

For my Obi-Wan shouldn't have to glimpse fear in me. 

After all, _I'm _the one whose supposed to be the epitome of courage, detached from mindless fretting.

I hear a small clink beside me.

He sets his cup on the ground, scoots his chair closer. Then, he curls his legs behind him, turned slightly toward me, and slips his hand in mine.

That hand is noticeably cold, and I hold it firm. 

His eyes are a bit clearer when he looks up at me, but they're also tired, tainted on one side by the nearby scar. 

__

He shouldn't be out here.

The voice rings dully, but insistently, like a rusted bell.

I give the chapped fingers a squeeze. "We should go inside, Obi-Wan. Your hand's like ice."

And I accept the weary, almost pained disappointment in his soft, moon-bathed face.

I'd rather watch that sad expression than forfeit, than lose him, and his every expression, forever.

Dutifully he pulls himself up, grabbing the mug from the floor and walking with a little numbness through the door.

I follow, locking it, then check to be certain it's secure.

For a brief instance, I stare into the savage, merciless night.

__

You won't have him.

And I tear way, to wait for sleep to fall-partially-over the apartment.


	8. No Peace

****

Eight: No Peace

I shift in my chair, feeling the ache at the base of my spine. At first it was a brief, uncomfortable quiver in my back, but each night, with no relief from the rigid vigil, it creeps further up, deeper into bone and muscle. I'm well aware of my age, and that pain should be expected when I subject myself to such abuse. 

Well aware-but equally frustrated. 

I sigh through slightly parted lips, the warm breath chafing against cold skin. 

My eyes flicker over again to him, wrapped in his thick, downy comforter and curled onto his side. I can remember when that same comforter used to swallow him up, his face softly framed by the pale blue fabric, that young face with the round jaw and dimpled chin. 

A jaw that has a light dusting of stubble now.

My heart clenches tight in my chest, and I run a hand down my face. During a whirlwind of missions, reports and training, its quite easy to dodge the signs, to drown out the teasing little whispers in the mind. 

But ever since…he was returned, there have been countless hours to sift through the memories, the worries. 

I recall times when he was small enough to fit beside me on a narrow armchair or crowd in comfortably when space was limited. 

His feet nearly dangle off the edge of the bed tonight.

And my back is sore, like an old man whose loitered in one place too long, who will spend many tense moments trying to work the 'kinks' out, as they say--

Who lets his thoughts amble well off track, floating off onto his melancholy haze, his sentimental twirl in the ether. 

And then finds reality once more.

He's folded in on himself, tucked in the soft circle of the worn duvet, almost in a self-protective position, as if at any moment he'll be forced to spring into full vigilance. 

__

A familiar frame of mind. 

No. No. The night, with its dense spread of darkness that seems to inspire the wicked gleam in the criminal eye, will certainly _not_ have him. Because we're both poised for attack. 

__

Attack? 

I reach out tentatively, to brush fingers across his back…Perhaps then he will stir, maybe even wake. And then I won't have to sit here, silent witness to his restless half-sleep, unconsciously imitating his Master. He can be beside me, eyes open.

But, a sliver of an inch away from him, my hand detracts. 

Why would I subject him to this dragging insomnia? For my own peace of mind?

__

There isn't peace. Never peace. If I can keep him safe…that is my own kind of peace…the only kind I can possibly have.

Despite my last minute reversal, he flips from his side to his back, a crease chiseled between his brows. 

My entire form stills. I'm a veritable statue in the middle of his shadowed room, waiting for him to slip back into sleep, for his eyelids to go lax. 

For a handful of minutes, it's uncertain whether he will abide by my unvoiced wishes and remain oblivious to his sentry, or if his eyes will fix on me, questioning me, wondering why he's being watched like a sniffling child with a cold. 

With a thankful exhale, I ease my body, as I sense his brief sentience fade, his head lolling to rest on his pillow. 

I try to disarm my concern, frowning at him when he twists in again, grasping his braid against his neck, huddling close. 

I would have reached out for him, to comfort instead of awaken…

But I feel that neither of us can find solace tonight.

Only that he should sleep.

And I should not. 


	9. Sparks

****

Nine: Sparks

I should not, _cannot,_ sleep. Every vein and vessel within my brain is convinced of that. Even when my body starts to lull toward respite, my limbs filling with a warm, leaden heaviness, it will suddenly yank at the wires of my mind, the ones connecting so many circuits in a complicated fusion of instinct, reflex and emotion.

It _seems_ like a complex system, most certainly is when sizzling and open to a surgeon's delicate tools. 

But, watching a diluted orange shaft of morning spread across my apprentice's bedroom floor, I know it isn't some tangle of corded hysteria, with countless cables twining and knotting together.

There are separations, outlets spaced out from one another. And the power that flows through each differ in their strength. Some are meager sparks of life, existing without any tangible gratitude or profound purpose.

And then…there are those that could, if needed, fuel the entire unit, working tirelessly while the other components of the assemblage burned out to black. 

That can, that have, brought the flush of vivacity to what was considered to be little more than machine, pushing it beyond the stiff limits of electric, rudimentary existence. That sent blood, hot and pumping, through the normally cold form.

Days were rigid cycles, once. Hours devoted to precise activity, a schedule drafted by a robotic drone who only occasionally experienced a splice in his networking, and saw flashes of life the way others, the ones with beating hearts, saw it. But with a few clicking blinks, those distracting images would be gone, and he could continue in his painstakingly planned timetable.

Wake. Yes. Shower. Yes. Dress. Yes. Consume morning meal. Yes-if it was remembered to do so. Attend various meetings. Yes. Spar. Yes. Consume midday meal. Yes-if previous task did not run too long, but it was acceptable if such an event occurred. Sparring prevented those inconvenient falters in circuitry, after all. Meditate. Yes-it was satisfactory if this endeavor were sacrificed, for if it surpassed its allotted time, things began to bend and strobe uncomfortable light in his head. Consume evening meal. Yes. Draft reports. Yes-very useful after instances of the bend and light. Sleep. Yes-not nearly as pleasant as the prior, but necessary.

It was not in him to dream. Such things could cause blue sprays of energy in his largely gray mind that threw parts of the system, parts better left dormant, into overdrive. 

A very practical life, a smooth way without turbulence.

But then…there was a bump, a dent in the galvanized armor.

Wake. Shower. Dress. Consume morning meal. Attend audience of initiate lightsaber duels and performances. 

No. No, he informed the sentient that was staring up at him, confusing him with its folds of soft skin when he himself had only lusterless steel. Such an inconsistency would not compute. It was not acceptable. It was not _right._

And he told the sentient so, ignoring the brief flashes in his temple that wanted him to recognize a sort of envy when his eyes came in contact with that flesh.

He could do more than ignore it. He could correct it, yes, because in his thought process, in a particular outlet, he knew that the tender, elastic coverings of a sentient, with their whims and emotion, could not compete with his cool, calculated efficiency, his glinting surface that could deflect all foreign matter, that could reflect their strange, flushed faces so that they could only see themselves, never him. Never him. 

Yet, there was a maddening flaw in his makeup. Duty. It overrode his rational objections. Obligation-even when it had the potential of a spark, of a beam of unexpected, unbidden light-had a hefty predominance that he could not disregard.

So he added a new, _temporary_ grid in his day's graph. 

Attend audience of initiate lightsaber duels and performances. 

Yes.

It would be disruptive, but it would not be disastrous. Because all the other cords were in place. They did not move.

He sat in the stands, not feeling (with all his focused energy) the clustered warmth of the beings around him. He carried out his duty, yes, duty was what it was so it couldn't possibly alter his interior set-up, since duty was a base socket. 

He watched with unchanging eyes the small figures below, swiping their buzzing weapons, flipping and moving and totally divided from him.

Totally….until there was _him_, the sentient with an abundance of light, light that tried to weed into his dark power station, and even touch upon the switches and plugs. Touch with his fluidity, his body defying the automation of the machine's own movements. 

And, more disconcerting, he would not leave the station once he entered. Even when he wasn't present in body, his traces were left, printed on the cords and outlets, slowly wearing away their layers.

No. That most definitely did not compute. He needed to be repaired, so he could move forward again, return to his schedule, his safe configuration. 

He did, for a short span of time. But it was never the same after the initial disorder.

It was never the same, because he began to realize, in an odd, neglected corner of his terminal, that what was causing the deterioration were not the prints themselves….but the fact that they were singular.

That there were no more of them. 

Beside duty was preservation, and it was his duty to preserve his steel shell, his form. Therefor, it was his duty to bring an extra form to his quarters, if it ensured preservation of the shell. 

But no--there were negations now in his grid when there were always assurances. 

Wake. Yes. Shower. Yes. Wake him--that was something he was unaccustomed to. A spark when there should have been stillness. Consume morning meal. Yes. Discuss the day's projected events--never before had he needed to do this, except in the era before his reprogramming, the bits of image he so wanted to avoid. Escort him to various classes and/or attend various meetings with him--new as well. He was forced to speak when it was not wired in him to. Spar with him--an especially taxing variance from his usual routine. He was not prepared for the sudden halts in the duel, when he needed to instruct, when he had to draw from inactive cables. Worse, when he saw biting color, red, and knew, from some buried cord, that he needed to patch a wound on the boy's unfamiliar, sentient skin. He recognized the red, a simple signal of maintenance that needed to be undergone, had identified it occasionally in his own form. But he had been detached from the accompanying sensation-pain-then. When it happened to the boy, he could not stall it inside him. He felt that sensation, saw the strobes of blinding illumination. Consume midday meal--yes, and there was no option of skipping that. What was once a choice was now a necessity. He had to sit beside him, be sure that he ate even when he himself was not compelled to. And again, he was forced to speak, despite his programming. Lead the boy into meditation--that required more cords to be inserted in already overhauled plugs, because the boy needed to be hooked to that system, on some level, so that he could do his duty. More prints were left in the machine's simulation of a mind. Meditate--and the difficulty of this was increased significantly, with the new connections and wiring. Too many attachments caused those great explosions of blue sparks. Too much color, the machine was aware. Color and light. Consume evening meal--the uncomfortably spontaneous speech once more. Monitor the boy's homework--and there were numerous instances when he would need to jiggle the head of a plug, so that it functioned again, and he could properly act out his obligations. Sleep--

The largest, most shattering change of all. 

There had always been brief flubs in that section of the planned day, additional hours of cognizance when there was meant to be only rest. He adapted, and adjusted his schedule to allow for it.

But he didn't allow for the shrill sound that sliced through the silence, that immediately sent the electric showers off in his head. He didn't count on the tears, the warm moisture gleaming on that soft, strange skin, that needed to be dried by his blunt steel fingers. He wasn't rightly prepared for the strings of garbled, gasping words, words that described dreams, nightmares. Things he wasn't designed to have _or _understand, but now possessed, in both respects. 

He was a machine, and machines were not meant to cradle small, shivering sentient forms and whisper soothing murmurs in their ears and stroke their feathery, clean hair and press cool cloths to their fevered foreheads and laugh at their unique humor and reply with a similar attempt meant to bring a smile to their flushed sentient faces and reassure them and guide them and gently inform them of their errors and praise their talents and remember each of their bruises and heal those bruises and become afraid when those bruises are too extensive to be easily healed and sit beside hospital beds, holding their limp sentient hands and touch machinery to skin, forehead to forehead, cheek to cheek and worry over every frown that surfaces and run cold, manufactured hands down thin, plaited strands of brown hair and carry tired bodies to their rooms and linger there in their rooms and talk to them and talk to them even when it isn't required and forget about self-preservation and hold them and watch them and…love…them.

Love, what was that?

There was duty, obligation, bodily functions--what was love? 

If it was the stirring in his motionless chest whenever he looked at the boy, whenever the youth achieved something beyond expectation or just smiled his genuine, disarming smile, then it was the cord that was shoved in when there wasn't adequate space for it. Other cables-distance and selfishness and self-protection-were heated to an unbearable degree, flying from their sockets and landing somewhere very nearly out of reach. He could still replace them, if needed. 

But he didn't.

Love, very plainly, did not compute in his old system. And he soon discovered it didn't in the rapidly evolving one, either.

Love did not exist in a droid's counterfeit heart. 

But the boy _did_ exist, with his feathery, clean hair and bruises and unique humor. And if he existed, then love had to as well, because the boy _was _love.

The last eruption of sparks and popping energy and then the entire onslaught of images. 

It was overwhelming. He felt things that were banished from him for what was akin to an eternity: sadness, happiness, depression, joy, romance, devastation, guilt, terror, affection…anger. What seemed like more than his share of that.

Yet--these were all components of a human soul--and he had them. He had them all along. They were there, the anger and sadness securing the festered plugs, stifling the joy and affection, but never succeeding in executing them. 

And they were returned to him in their entirety, as was his human form, his skin, turning warm and cold and scraping and bleeding and mending and resembling that of the boy, so that he could finally relate to him, a being who, at last, shared some of his attributes. 

And for awhile, he tried to grasp to his former self, to the wisely detached machine who stayed in the dark and prospered satisfactorily in the gray. Who didn't stare out at the night sky, and if he did, did not notice the glittering, breathtaking spectacle--who didn't have breath in the first place. 

But, if one didn't breathe, one couldn't laugh or scream or teach or murmur or cry…

Who would want to cry? He had seen the rivulets of wet on the sentient faces from time to time, sometimes in a cloud of cosmetic black or stream or pure, clear dampness. It was a symbol of misery, and machines were saved from such suffering. Because if robots cried then that would send more sparks flying and crackling and their whole system could crash. Not crying was another method of self-preservation--duty.

The final hurdle, the obstacle that would cause the total destruction of the steel: When the boy cried, from pain or fear or some unnamed source, he could not think of the foolishness of humans, could not ridicule their stupidity of tears. Or else he himself was the greatest fool--for whenever the boy cried, he cried along with him.

And loved him and laughed with him and screamed with him and taught him and murmured to him…

I was a human again, in complete, breathing sentient form.

It was frightening, exhausting…and wonderful. 

As long as Obi-Wan was there to leave his marks, I was of flesh and bone, and the fixed schedule was obliterated. I couldn't hold fast to that lifestyle, because some mornings I didn't wake and shower and dress. Often I woke and sneaked into my apprentice's shadowed room and threw open the curtains and tickled the drowsy, half-awake child, forgetting that there had ever been a set way of things, a constant rhythm that was never supposed to be yielding to new notes. 

Obi-Wan was my heart, my pumping blood, my immovable central cord, my beautiful, ever-surprising symphony. 

And in the blink of an eye--or the forced laxness of one--he had lost each of those, was bereft of him and his life-giving touch. 

Instead of love and laughter there was tense fear, anguish, rage. Without him, I slowly reverted back to a harshly specific little schedule, following it like the drone I had once been.

Wake. Yes. Shower. Yes. Dress. Yes. Sit in living area, holding the boy's cloak. Yes. Sit in the boy's room. Yes. Walk to Gardens. Yes. Sit in the boy's favorite spot. Yes. Return to quarters. Yes. Pace the floor. Yes. Sleep. Yes--when he could.

There _was_ love, still. But it was a memory, data from a former existence, as it had been before. Painful sparks. 

Then--just when he was on the brink of shutting down--there was a breach in his daily plan. 

Wake. Shower. Dress. Sit in living area, holding the boy's cloak. Receive transmission from an arriving transport.

And I was shedding the sheets of steel, running down the corridors, those foolish human tears rushing down my fleshy human face.

I saw my heart, laid out on the stretcher, and wrapped my arms around it--felt it within my chest again, after so long a stillness, beating.

I remained beside Obi-Wan, sometimes glancing out at the glistening nightfall, hearing that euphony again.

And I could remember the barren, mechanical time when his Padawan was gone…it couldn't happen again.

So sleep was edited from my mind and body, out of duty and love and so much more.

It was eliminated--so that I could always breathe and listen to the harmony of my heart. 

The sun is full in the morning sky now, and I quietly inhale, reaching out to lay my palm against Obi-Wan's chest, feeling the measured reverberations pulsing against my touch. 

Obi-Wan stirs, the sheets twisting softly with his movements. 

I don't retract my hand, senselessly terrified of my memories, that parts of the machine are still inside me, waiting to resume their regular, emotionless habits, as they did when Obi-Wan was stolen from me, and my body became that horrible shell again.

We are attached. It isn't self-preservation. It's protection of us both.

Obi-Wan blinks, scarlet--red-- threads staining the whites of his eyes. "Master?" He says groggily. 

I'm glad that I've shielded myself so intensely from him. I think that these last musings would have disturbed him. "It's time to get up, Padawan." I reply, clearing my throat when a lump rises. My voice is little more than a rasp.

His eyes fall for a moment, and I notice that he doesn't seem as rested as he should, that he actually appears nearly as exhausted as I surely do.

I brush my fingers across his forehead, flashes of those lonely days and created images of prowlers, climbing through his window going off in my mind, and I swallow hard. I wish I could just order him to stay here, to not leave for his morning class. Instead, "You better get ready. Class starts in an hour." And, my lips trembling slightly, "I'll take you there today."

I expect an objection, for him to argue it would be out of my way, a waste of my time. But he only smiles, very weakly. "Alright, Master."

I leave him, reluctantly, and move to my own room, to prepare for another weary day. 


	10. Beads of Rain

Thanks for the reviews. I love reading the input offered in each one. -LuvEwan

****

Ten: Beads of Rain

It's the prismatic time of morning, when everything's awash in a million hues, gold and copper and beams of liquid sun, spreading through the open areas of the Temple, inviting us all to a fresh start. 

As warm as it is, he's wearing his cloak, wrapped up in its voluminous layers, the hood tucked around his face, contrasting the early day colors with pure, stark shadow. 

I'm compelled to pull the cowl down, but if he's comfortable with his little scrap of shelter, I won't invade. Sometimes, when he's unusually tired, he'll do that, trying to cling to sleep as though the robe were an extension of his bed. I'm certain he won't drift off in his class, though. He's always been studious and, when it comes down to it, too polite for that sort of sluggish and improper behavior. 

A yawn stretches my mouth and I'm quick to cover it with a hand. I sorely miss my own cloak. In…situations such as mine, personal matters are pushed aside, a small sacrifice to achieve complete focus. Still, my bones are beginning to be more vocal in their protest of my unrest; there's a crick in my back that seems determined to remain there. While he's in session, maybe I'll take the chance to escape into a shallow meditative state, far from asleep but not altogether awake. I'll be finely tuned to his signature, of course, and end it before the class closes. 

Besides, I won't be far. Outside the door in fact, standing close to the wall opposite it. 

Yes, that's what I'll do.

He hasn't spoken since his few words upon waking, and the silence is suspended like a fraying string between us, straining under the tension. I want it to break, so I begin to mull over topics. Would he like to go to the Dining Hall afterwards? No, it was crowded and noisy there. That wouldn't work. Had he met with Garen yet? No, Padawan Muln was inclined to spend nights over in the Entertainment levels, at those arcades with neon lights. They were unfailingly packed with patrons, and not just chatting Jedi either. Force, why don't I just leave Obi-Wan in a dark alleyway at midnight? 

I see Padawans up ahead, trickling into the classroom. I go with a safe subject, bringing it up quickly, before our time is gone. "Are you enjoying Master Selira's lectures?"

He looks up at me from beneath the draping fabric and pooling shade of his hood. There's a measure of surprise on his face. "Yes, Master. They're very--satisfactory."

And his eyes drop again, two beads of rain halted a mere moment in the gray sky before continuing downward. 

I frown, realizing he's raised a few shields around himself. If I'm not open to his thoughts, I can't be totally aware of what's happening to him.

As I was that night. That night proved it doesn't matter how near we are. Without a clear connection, we risk…Hells, he's risking _himself_. What if something were to go wrong, and he needed me to protect him? What if he didn't have time to pull those blasted walls down again, before…

I stop walking, pulling a ragged breath into my throat. His steps slow, and he turns around, visibly confused. 

"Padawan, is there a _reason_ why you're blocking me?" I ask, my hands coming up to loosely sit on my hips. 

He blinks, a pale rose blooming in each cheek. "I---"

"You know I'm always supposed to be able to communicate with you." _Gods_ doesn't he know?

His lips compress, deepening the cleft in his chin, before he swallows. "I know. Master, I--I'm just tired and my head hurts a bit. I didn't want that to project through to you."

__

Then Force Obi-Wan what else do you think shouldn't? "Why not?"

Another apprentice might've huffed or rolled their eyes. Obi-Wan is neither indignant nor annoyed. Not even flustered standing here, very still. I place two fingers to his temple, sending mild waves of healing energy. 

"Thanks." His lips flicker in a quick smile. "Because I…I don't want you to worry about me."

It's difficult to reply to that, with the cold, painful churning in my stomach. The welling in my heart. I look at his face, partially concealed in shadow, and shake my head. "Then you're going about it quite foolishly, Padawan. I worry _more_ about you when you're cut off from me. I need to know, I always need to know, that you're alright."

He smiles again, a little stronger this time. "Okay, Master."

I smile, hoping he won't see the desperation, the fear so sharp it spikes in my eyes and gut. I know I have his absolute acquiescence, and if I wanted to, I could order him to stay close, to stop walking toward danger by walking away from me, even if only for an hour or two, even if those steps take him no farther than an arcade or classroom. 

The hall's emptying and he glances over his shoulder at the dwindling number of students. 

__

He has to go. "I'll be here when it lets out. Then we can take lunch at the apartment and you can catch up on your sleep." _You can be where it's safe._

"I'll see you then." He says with a fast good-bye, walking briskly to make it through the closing door, his fingers curled in his robe sleeves. 

And then the door shuts, sucking up my last easy breaths with it.

I stare at it for a moment, the steel providing a silvery, fogged reflection, then turn around, to begin my brief meditation.

I stand with my arms crossed, eyes slowly and with a great reluctance closing. 

__

Light indentations in the mattress cover, shallow ripples in the sheets.

A pillow, just one pillow, the red gossamer one he was using, lying on the ground.

A buzzing silence where there should be soft snoring, or the muted spray of the shower. 

The sick certainty inside him.

The void, when there should have been more than snoring or water jets, where there was meant to be the gentle presence, always with him. 

"We've searched the city, Master Jinn."

"We've put out several bulletins, Master Jinn."

Walking down the streets, looking, garnering those strange stares from people who couldn't understand.

"I'm sorry, sir, but the leads seem to be growing stale."

"Come to the Temple now, you will."

Returning to motionless quarters and bottomless despair and midnight wanderings and remembering him and imaging the worst…the very worst…

It's becoming too much, the whispers and pictures that are springing from my eyelids. Gods, if I do this a second more I'm going to march into that room and withdraw him from the class and go home, home where the windows and doors can be locked…

"Master Jinn!" 

I look over and see Master T'Hle'a rushing toward me at a jog, her jet black hair swept into a slick, inky bun and her dark eyes wide and focused. I know her only as Obi-Wan's Culture instructor, a tall, solidly built woman who wears deep brown tunics and was a few years behind me in training when we were children. 

She's reached me by now, and I'm nearly frowning. What matter could be so pressing involving me? We're acquaintances, nothing beyond that. 

"I'm glad I caught you, Master Jinn." She pushes a single stray hair from her face. "I know we're not friends, but I thought it paramount to talk to you about this."

"What is it?" I ask, marginally intrigued, my eyes moving from her to the door for a moment.

"Chancellor Velorum approached me a couple of days ago and wanted to know if I could get him in touch with one of my pupils. He was very impressed by an essay dealing with the importance of youth. How they can prevent violence, promote positive ideas. Things like that." She explained. "I told him it was Obi-Wan, and he asked if Obi-Wan would like to speak at a major fundraising banquet---"

"I don't think that would be wise." I blurt out, thinking of tables crammed with strangers. And if the Chancellor were there, at a publicized event, then there was a good chance assassins wouldn't be far. No, it wasn't wise. Not at all.

T'Hle'a's forehead creases. "That's interesting, Master Jinn. 

"Because that's exactly what you're apprentice said."


	11. Invasions

****

Thanks to shanobi and Athena Leigh. You guys are sweethearts. 

Eleven: Invasions

My arms cross against my chest. "He what? He said that?"

She nods, plucked brows raised in a nearly severe concern. "I was as dumbstruck as you. I mean, Obi-Wan doesn't relish flaunting his talents, but it just doesn't seem like him to turn down such an honor, especially from a man you both respect. I even mentioned how it would reflect very well on the Temple and the Jedi as a whole, but he wasn't swayed--" She too weaves her long arms, one leg bent a bit forward. "Did he ever tell you about it?"

"No." I glance at the sealed, gleaming door, then at her face. "He never said a word."

She rests her short chin on a fist and frowns. "I don't understand. I _don't _understand. I tried to ride it off as nerves, and I know he can be shy at times, but this…It doesn't sit well with me at all, Master Jinn."

And from her slightly strained expression, I can tell _I_ don't sit well with Master T'hle'a either. Force, she almost acts as if I put the idea into Obi-Wan's head. 

Stifling a sigh, I address her again. "I assure you, I'm not very pleased with this information either." _But at least it saved me from forbidding him to go. _"I'll talk to him as soon as class ends."

She looks mollified, save for the way her charcoal eyes scrape over me, like she's weighing something within her mind. 

I don't want that gaze leveled so completely on me. I can't have such scrutiny aimed at me _or_ my apprentice. "If that's all, Master T'hle'a--"

"You never asked _how_ Chancellor Velorum came into possession of your Padawan's essay." She informs me, half-curt, half-curious. 

I say nothing, and the silence lasts a mere beat.

She breathes heavily out, then moistens her lips. "I was attending a luncheon, one of those where Jedi attendance is encouraged. You know the kind. I ended up seated beside the Chancellor. We spoke for a few minutes and he inquired about the progress in my class. I described a recent assignment that I handed out, an open topic essay. He said he would be delighted to receive a few of them to read at his leisure. I agreed, of course. Obi-Wan's was stellar, to say the least, and I asked him if it would be alright to pass it along to the Chancellor.

"Obi-Wan said it was _fine_, Master Jinn. I could sense how flattered he was. He said it was fine and even seemed a little excited at the attention. 

"So you'll see why I don't understand that now he's had this sudden, uncharacteristic change of heart. Why he would go from excitement at the Chancellor's interest to turning down this request." Her lips purse, arms still against her chest. Two purely black orbs are keen on my face. "And you've shown me you feel the same way he does."

There's a dry lump in my throat that's quickly absorbing any trace of moisture. 

She doesn't wait for a response from me. "Now, I'm not sure if this is any vital factor, but I had that initial talk with Obi-Wan less than a week before…your mission to Ejhlon." There's a grimness in her voice that I hear echoed in my head, in my own voice.

__

Ejhlon.

I've never heard that damned word since I was sitting beside my apprentice's hospital bed, rubbing the palms of his hands as he struggled to sleep after a dark dream. 

I was never supposed to hear it again.

But she's saying it, saying it without knowing it was stricken from speech. "Or perhaps my apprentice simply doesn't _want _to recite it, Master T'hle'a." Heat, burning behind my ears."There _is _a difference between the Chancellor reading it privately and an entire group of people hearing it. He's a young man, and a room full of stuffy dignitaries probably isn't very enticing to him."

She doesn't move, not even to blink. "Or, _perhaps, _it isn't very enticing to _you._ After all, you just rejected the proposition before I could finish presenting it." She says coolly. "I'd think a Jedi Master of your stature and intelligence would recognize the value in Obi-Wan accepting the offer. It's not every day the ruler of the Republic asks a kid, Jedi or not, to speak at a highly publicized event."

"My Padawan is quite aware of his skills. He doesn't need an invitation from Chancellor Velorum to affirm them. Neither do I."

"Somehow, I don't think insecurity in Obi-Wan's talents is the issue here, Master Jinn. If it were, then I don't think Master Yoda and Mace would have allowed me to ask Obi-Wan to speak in the first place. _They_ approved it, why didn't you?"

"Master T'hle'a, you previously mentioned our last mission. I'm sure you know that my apprentice endured a horrible ordeal. He doesn't need this stress put upon him while he's still recovering."

Her face softens. "How long will you regard him as recovering? It's been _months_, and you talk as if he was only released from the healers yesterday. Since he came back, I've seen him spar with you, no one else. In fact, I've never seen him anywhere _without you_ these months. 

"And here you are, standing outside the classroom."

There are things burning on the edge of my mouth, words I wish could burst out that would halt her. _She doesn't know what she's talking about. _How could she? How many days did she spend at the Ejhlon police station? How many nights was she awake, carefully sponging his bruised eye? How many _years_ did she lose to barren circuits and empty routine?

How long did _she_ sleep last night?

"You're very bold to suggest that I would do anything to hinder my apprentice's full recovery." My tone is brittle, cracked with a lethal dose of venom and the taste of lukewarm caffe, drank endlessly during my stay with him in that crisp white room. "I must monitor him, as all Masters do while training their Padawans. I don't appreciate this invasion, Master T'hle'a. And I don't think Obi-Wan would either."

"That's just it." She retorts with evident frustration. "It's only what you believe, not what you _know._"

My mouth is opening, but then she turns cleanly on her heel, retreating from me in silence.

I rest my back rigidly against the wall.

__

How many years does she_ have left with him?_


	12. No Other Reasons

****

Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed, and happy holidays! 

Twelve: No Other Reasons

I know it's impossible to be a full-blooded Jedi, to purge every human tendency that doesn't fit the mold. In short, perfection is something not even the 'defenders of the galaxy' can attain. Sometimes I think my apprentice would argue that-especially early into our relationship, when I was the mysterious rogue, the aloof Master, a man whose missions were studied in the textbooks the child read. Maybe Obi-Wan's not a child anymore (I must have indigestion, there's a strange burning in my heart right now) but I'm still the same man, for the most part. I'll never be able to rid the last traces of hero worship from his eyes when he looks at me. 

A lovely feeling, to be so respected by him, even when it wasn't deserved. 

But with that awed gaze comes responsibility (I better watch it or I'll start stealing that little troll's maddening syntax too). I must be the upstanding example after which he'll model his own life. 

I wouldn't want Obi-Wan to experience what I am this moment, with T'hle'a's accusations branded in my brain, sizzling with tendrils of smoke. Because I'm not the ideal Jedi paragon currently, not when my fingers are dangerously close to curling into fists and a ragged yell is rising in my throat. 

I'm a Master of this Order, I hold its ideals above all others.

But _gods_ what wouldn't I give to let go, just long enough to scream, to release all this anger, not to the Force, but to the open air? 

I sigh, glancing at a chrono mounted above the door. 

After the horrendous encounter with T'hle'a, I guess I let myself believe it actually went on as long as it felt. I thought for sure Obi-Wan would be released from class by now. 

I study the chronometer, the digital colon blinking in such a rhythm that my teeth are on edge. 

He _will _be out soon, but soon is never soon enough, is it? Not when you're waiting, and the wait becomes a monotonous tunnel you travel, the road flat and shadow all around, riding and riding with unchanging scenery and only your thoughts to maintain sanity until not even your own musings are enough and you wonder if there was ever a world before the tunnel or beyond it….

Then, the light approaches, the door begins to open…

And I can breathe again. The Padawans file out the room, in pairs or groups, laughing or talking, heading toward the Dining Hall. Among the throng of friends is Obi-Wan, visibly separate from them, his eyes moving from some spot on the floor to my face.

He gives a timid smile and I walk over to meet him.

"How was class?" I inquire as we begin to walk. 

He clears his throat. "Good."

Silence then, a flagrant opportunity to ask about the speech.

But why do I _need _to? I tried to explain to that woman, he's weak from his recuperation. She didn't believe me and maybe she's seen him now and then, but she doesn't see the dark circles under his eyes or how he'll sleep restlessly, kicking his blankets down around his feet. 

There can be no other reason. But--_no…There can be no other reason._

See what's she's doing, with all her suspicions and diluted theories? 

I don't want to be absorbed by my worry. I want him to be nearby, so that I can teach him and guide him, without distraction. 

I will not even _consider _any other reasons for his rejection of the speech.

He doesn't need the worry either.

"Maybe…Maybe tonight we could go to the Gardens, Master." He suggests, folding his cloaked arms across his chest, as if it were cold. "Or the fountains."

Larger space is more difficult to secure, it's not like the relatively small rooms with four walls and a window. The Room of a Thousand Fountains has that cement floor that's loose in areas. 

"We'll see, Padawan." I say, resting my hand on his shoulder, already knowing the answer. 


	13. Questions

****

Thirteen: Questions

It's common knowledge, and something that I've become more aware of as the years go by, that the thing which you most want banished from your mind is the one thing which will absolutely refuse to leave it. 

For a decade, it was a half-circle, scorched into pale, almost translucent skin. 

Then it was a young, eager smile and a brilliant Force presence.

And after that, the permanently sealed eyes that had always been a haven of liquid gold and green, stilled to cool marble in as quick a time as it would've taken them to blink. 

Now, it's those words, those thoughtless, scathing words, spoken by someone who had no right to say them.

I'm trying increasingly hard _not_ to dwell on them, but it's difficult to accomplish, with the subject of the words seated a few feet away.

He's fingering the edges of the historical tome I gave him, reading some passage or another, frowning.

I look up from the sandwiches I'm assembling. "Something unsettling, Padawan?"

He shrugs. "Not really--It's just that--" He lifts a page so that I can view the medium length, slender hole in the middle, robbing it of some of its text. "I guess I'll never know what happened at the Confrontation of Delvon II."

A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. I set the sandwiches on a plate and carry them into the living area. "Well, I'm afraid I'm to blame for that."

He grabs a sandwich, knowing without doubt that I've included all his favorite ingredients--and left out any traces of onion. "Thanks a lot. Now I'll always feel that my life was incomplete." He teases with a weary, but bright, grin and takes a bite.

I laugh lightly. "You're not missing much, Obi-Wan. Both sides garnered too many wounded and had to call a consensual cease fire." 

After telling him, I wonder if I should have. His face sinks, just a bit.

"Oh." He closes the giant book and sets it aside. "_That_ was certainly an anticlimax."

I nod in agreement and take a long drink of iced tea. Maybe--Maybe it would've been better to leave him to his little shred of suspense, instead of banking the flame.

We finish eating in companionable quiet. His shields have been thin and rather opaque since this morning. Muddled from exhaustion, I'm sure. 

"You look tired, Padawan. Was class very demanding today?"

"No. There was an involved debate, but I mostly listened."

"Oh." I smile. "Didn't have much of an opinion on the topic?"

He shrugs again and slows a hand through his hair. "I didn't feel like being buried in all the opposition."

I study his face for a moment, slightly shadowed despite the absence of his hood. I begin to see something I don't want to see in the depths of his eyes, surrounded by the black cast of unfulfilling sleep and the somber curve of his lips. I clap his shoulder. "Why don't you get some rest then? Because I for one enjoy a good argument." _When it's a comfortable one, anyway. _"And you're always the best person to offer the counterpoint."

His smile is subdued, but genuine. He rises from the couch and heads for his room.

I sit where I am, settling into the silence and stillness…

But nothing is still and the air buzzes in my ears. 

__

"It's only what you believe, not what you know_."_

No.

That's not true.

I glance at the book, remembering the slit in the page. 

__

That can't be true.

And I'm standing up, catapulting to my feet, all but racing down the hall after him.

He's already curled up on his side, an arm over his face, when I walk into his dim bedroom.

I speak, and at first, I can scarcely hear my own voice over my reverberating heartbeats. "Obi-Wan?"

The arm slides off. He must see the urgency in my eyes; he sits up. "Yeah?"

I blink, willing myself to become pacific, to ask the question with more ease than I feel. "Why did you turn down Chancellor Velorum's invitation?"

Two shifts are made in his pallor. The majority of his skin turns sheet-white, while his cheeks grow scarlet. "I…How'd you know about that?"

I'm not angered by the dodge, too intent on reading the honesty printed on his face, and in the Force. "Your Culture Studies instructor told me." A bit childish that I can't even speak her name. 

With his right hand he scratches the opposite elbow, more out of nervousness than necessity. "I just wasn't interested." He says quietly, eyes not quite focused on mine. "I'm not much of a public speaker."

My stomach falls. _See? He's not much of a public speaker. That's all. _

"Why…" He looks down at his hands, then up at me. "Why were you talking with her?"

"She was only making sure you'd made the right decision." Even in the near-dark, I can see the weariness in his face. "Why didn't you tell me about it?"

"I didn't think it was important. I didn't want to worry you with it."

"Not important? It was a great honor, Obi-Wan. Even if you didn't want to accept it, I would like to be informed of such things." I squeeze his shoulder. "I'm very proud of you."

"Thanks, Master."

If there's more to say, I don't want to say it. 

And what _would_ there be to say? 

I start toward the door. "Sleep well, Padawan."


	14. Sinking

****

Fourteen: Sinking

By the time I sit again on the couch, I'm convinced that the matter was addressed completely, that I did what any capable Master would do.

The speech issue was troubling, but it's all been handled. He answered me, and his reasoning was perfectly legitimate. He wouldn't lie to me. 

I know him and I know he wouldn't. 

I can feel him sinking to sleep, but very slowly. His eyes are closed, I sense, they were closed before I ever left his room. 

But his mind is fighting the exhaustion, pulling his consciousness up from lethargy while his body continues to surrender to it.

His eyes are closed, but his mind droops and lifts like lids, flashes of dark and blurred slides of dusky thoughts. 

I brush fingers, composed of the Force and ethereal as a feather's touch, across the weary field of his battle, and he stops, quickly aware of my presence.

__

//Still awake, my apprentice?// I ask softly.

__

//I'm sorry, Master…I shouldn't broadcast something so small…so loudly…I'm sorry//

I only smile, though the heavy quality of his aura reminds me of my own eternal insomnia. _//You weren't so obvious, Padawan. I was checking on you.//_ My hand spreads a lulling sereneness over his mind, as it's done so often these past years…How many years? 

And I think, abruptly and in aged sorrow, how I was so nearly without this chance again. He was separated, in body, mind, in soul, from me, and I never knew if he was plagued by nightmares, if he reached for the balm of my Force only to meet with a cold, empty pit. 

As he did when he was younger, when we might as well have been lightyears apart, so was the gaping, stretched canyon of my voluntary breach in the training bond.

Grasping for wisps of nothing, of memory, as he will once the braid is shorn.

There's a tightness in my throat and I swallow. _//I was just checking on you.//_

//Oh.// And his mind is loosening from whatever shackle of cognizance it was locked into, slipping toward the black, downy cushion of slumber. _//Maybe..Maybe you should rest as well…Master…I'm fine now. I'll be…fine now.//_

For some foolish reason, my stomach twists into ice-rimed knots and I breathe out in a gust. _//Of course you are. And you will be.// _My face falls into my waiting palms, and I can't see anything save the dark cradle of them, not even the slits of light where my fingers don't quite meet.

Because my eyes are shut. _//Now go to sleep, my Padawan. Or I'll send Master Yoda in there to sing you a lullaby.//_

A faint, silver-bright chuckle. _//Force…forbid.//_

//You've been warned.// And I hope he doesn't notice that the humor is forced, that it's solely for his benefit, for the peace of his precious mind. 

His reply is hesitant. _//Now I think…I'll just be too scared to sleep.//_

My closed eyes tighten. I can't feel the mirth, not within myself, not even within him. _//You never have to be scared, Obi-Wan. I'll be here…//_

//Then why…why are YOU scared?//

A fleeting question, for I sense him gone, at last, to rest.

And too, I sense new words, more painful, occupy my mind. 

The door buzzes. I put a hand to my heart, thinking I've become an old man finally--and in an instant. 

I raise thin shields over Obi-Wan, then move to answer it.

Mace is standing in the frame. "Qui-Gon."

"Mace?"

He purses his lips. "I think we need to talk."


	15. Too Much

****

Thanks to my readers. 

Shanobi You're just so sweet. Thank you. **ewan's girl **About time someone spoke up to him, huh? **Obiwanfan **Yeah, I've never been much of a summary writer. I leave everything pretty vague. Glad you gave it a chance! **Athena Leigh **Double confrontation's the perfect wording…but wait, there could be more….

****

Fifteen: Too Much

I remain motionless for a moment, mystified. 

__

Talk? Talk about what?

Then a stone is thrown into the already rippling waters of my belly, and my eyes seal once more.

__

T'hle'a.

Damn her for making me experience this useless, pointless, unearned guilt, to dread the sight of a friend.

"Come in," I say, clearing my throat when I hear my strangled voice. 

He steps inside. His usually smooth face is carved mahogany, somber. 

"Is something wrong?"

Mace looks at me with grim solemnity. His eyes are polished obsidian stone, glinting at the edges, but completely still at the core. 

I've known him for the span of my life, been at his side through taxing trials and out-of-hand pranks, when he ascended to Council status and urged me to join him.

I can tell when he's troubled.

And I _know _when something's wrong.

"That's what I've been attempting to ascertain, Qui-Gon." He sits in the armchair, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees and tenting his fingers. "Master T'hle'a spoke me with earlier today."

I sigh and cross my arms.

"She communicated to me that there may be a problem concerning your apprentice…Obi-Wan."

"Yes, she approached me as well. And I found _absolutely no_ merit in what she had to say." I expect my voice to crackle, but it's strong, resolved.

Because I know what the truth is. _I_ know what's at stake if my attention were to waver.

I know what I was a breath away from losing.

What I can _never _lose again.

"I suppose I can't argue with you…not yet. I've only heard her side.

"And she seems to believe that Obi-Wan has undergone significant changes since his return to the Temple. Now that in itself isn't so unusual." His gaze softens. "I know that he was away for a long while and his separation was not--a pleasant one. A temporary withdrawal from his normal activities is understandable, while he's recuperating and readjusting."

"And that's what he's doing, Mace."

"Perhaps." He wipes at his forehead. "But for _this_ amount of time? According to T'hle'a..."

__

gods I'm tired of hearing about HER…

"…He's been very quiet. And his social circle has shrunk down to, well…you."

My eyes fall to the floor. "There's much training to be made up for. I don't want him to be behind."

"Obi-Wan's a bright young man, Qui-Gon. One of the most gifted in the Order. I don't doubt that he's perfectly able to recover in his training, especially since he's well ahead his age mates in most areas."

Frustration begins to needle my skin. "What exactly is the problem here? That my Padawan isn't interactive enough to suit Master T'hle'a and the Council? He was alone, in a hostile environment, for seven months. Is it _so_ strange that now he would choose to stay here, with me, where he's safe?"

His brow furrows. "Maybe not. But I _would think _that his Master would recognize such unhealthy behavior and try to discourage it."

__

Unhealthy? "I don't see what's unhealthy about this, Mace. He's safe where he is."

"He may be safe, Qui-Gon, but he's also isolated."

I want to stop him, to tell him that Obi-Wan's not isolated, that he can't be cut off from everyone when he's with me, when he's with me, and neither of us are alone…But that's not what escapes my mouth. "He's safe." I whisper, my chin sitting on the steeple of my fingers. "After all that time, that horrific time…He's safe."

"But is he happy?" Mace asks gently, watching me.

I can hear Obi-Wan's voice, exhausted, in my head, wondering if we could walk through the Gardens…And I remember my instantaneous reaction…

__

Isolated?

Unhappy?

"Qui-Gon, I trust that you want what's best for your apprentice. But the trauma of his kidnapping might've…altered your perceptions of what _is_ best for him. That's what the Council is concerned about. And that's why I've scheduled a meeting with Master Meelon for you tomorrow."

"A psychiatrist, Mace?" I balk, unable to accept the irrational notion. "You want me to go to a psychiatrist because I'm trying to protect my apprentice?"

He exhales. "You know that's not our motive." Now he stands, walking toward the door. "You're to be at Meelon's office at eleventh chime. That's an order."

I'm having difficulty putting one foot in front of the other, the cogs in my mind jamming under the stress. "That-That won't work. I already have plans for kata practice with Obi-Wan."

"I can take over." He replies easily. "I've taught your apprentice since before he _was_ your apprentice, after all."

There's a coolness to his voice that leaves me fired rather than chilled. "This is a mistake, Mace. You want me to sacrifice the well-being of Obi-Wan, and you should know that's something I will refuse to do. Whether it's an order or not."

"Obi-Wan will be alright if you're occupied for an hour, my friend. I think it would be far worse on him to know that his Master has been censured." He looks lastingly at me, dead serious. "Maybe this will help you, Qui-Gon."

I feel my jaw setting. "And how do you figure _that_ ?"

His skin smoothes out again. "Because you just may discover that another, the one whose well-being you're so focused on preserving, is the one making all the sacrifices."

A boulder solidifies in my throat. I can only stand as he exits the apartment, leaving a cold staleness in the air…and too much on my mind. 


	16. Never Tomorrow

****

Ewan's girl Thank you! **Athena Leigh **Oh, it will _definitely _be unpleasant. 

****

Sixteen: Never Tomorrow

I'm standing in the kitchen, leaning on the counter with my hands bracing the rim.

Obi-Wan's tying the sash of his tunic and I can tell by his lively movements that he's looking forward to our scheduled exertions in the sparring arena today. But a measure of his energy is due to a surge of adrenaline, because not long after Mace left, my Padawan walked out of his bedroom, obviously disturbed by the stirring in the apartment. 

Once again, others, _intruders,_ who try to tell me I'm the cause of his distress are the true cause of it. 

I can't be the only Master in the Temple who realizes my methods are more than sensible--they're required.

After all, my old way of doing things wasn't too effective, was it?

__

No. I can't think of it again. Not now.

I press my eyes shut. 

"Master, it's nearly eleventh chime."

And it's perhaps the first time I've been grieved by the soft tone of Obi-Wan's voice. 

__

Stupid of you, to pretend that the meeting wasn't real, to try to put it out of your mind.

But then, what happened to living in the present, focusing on current events rather than the future?

__

I AM focusing on the now…NOW I must protect my Padawan, because…I didn't…

In the past.

And the future is something that should remain murky in its uncertainties. Because I can't think of those tomorrows in the far horizon…when I reach them, what if I'm alone…when he's promoted and I'm alone…or gods what if…

An acrid taste pools dry in my mouth. "Thank you, Padawan." I rub my eyes.

His brows stretch flat in concern. "Master?"

I sigh. "Obi-Wan…I think perhaps you would benefit from a little variance in your training."

His expression is unchanged, and for some reason, that makes it all the worse, because he's waiting, depending on me for explanation…

When it's something I myself can't understand.

"While you were resting yesterday I was recruited for a meeting, and since it begins at eleventh chime…" I have to chip away fragments of the boulder in order to speak. "Master Windu will be instructing you in sparring today."

"Oh." He looks down, gathering his towel and clipping his saber to his belt. "What does the meeting concern?"

I offer a counterfeit smile and head toward the door. I know honesty is pivotal in the success and harmony of an apprenticeship, that as a Master I am the key role model in Obi-Wan's life. 

But some things are handled better through lies. It's better for me. And it's certainly better for him. What would he think if he knew I was visiting a mind healer? That the purpose of the visit was _him_?

No. I glance at his face and see the unwavering trust, the light that radiates as it never did when he was the dejected…rejected boy on Bandomeer. I hold that precious effulgence in my hands. I always have, and I'm a fool for never realizing. Of course Obi-Wan will burn brightly in the Force despite anything, no outside influence could bank that flame, but now, with acceptance and--love, the beautiful conflagration grows, a purely white light, in the Force, in his face, in his soul. 

It's the reason he survived Ejhlon.

And the reason I slowly withered in the cold without him.

"I haven't the foggiest idea, Padawan." I wait for him to join me in the hall, then activate the locking mechanism. "But at least _you_ were spared the aggravation."

He laughs quietly. "You're a complete liar, Master."

It takes my entire reserve of cool not to gasp aloud. _How could he know? He was asleep…and I've selectively shielded myself so he couldn't know…this can't be right…_ "And how's that?"

My voice is hollow, almost shaking.

"Because, " Obi-Wan continues with a smile, less spirited, "How could I be spared the aggravation when I'll have to endure your pitiful wining when you return?"

__

Thank the Force. My muscles relax. I even manage a chuckle. "I'm not too sure, Obi-Wan. I hid all your earplugs a long time ago."

That gleans a pleased laugh, and we walk into an empty lift.

The steel door slides shut.

As the terminal shoots downward, I fold my hands in front of me. "This will only be for today, Obi-Wan." I assure him.

He turns his head and smiles. "I know. I-I'll return as soon as the spar's over."

I ruffle his hair. _One less thing to worry about. _"Good. I hope this meeting doesn't take too long."

When the door opens, Mace is standing there. 

"Good morning, Qui-Gon. Obi-Wan."

Obi-Wan gives a shallow bow. "Good morning, Master Windu."

He nods in recognition, then fixes his dark eyes on me. "I can take it from here, friend. May the Force be with you."

I've never failed to return the salutation, but today I just nod to Obi-Wan, then step back into the lift.


	17. Powerless

****

Jedi_Keladry Hey! Just saw you on the boards. And thanks again for such flattering comments. **Ewan's girl** I think it's safe to say Obi-Wan won't be quiet about this forever. **Athena Leigh** Since it's from a POV, we won't really hear much of what Mace and Obi-Wan may have talked about--which is why a companion piece, from Obi-Wan's view, is being planned. 

****

Seventeen: Powerless

I've made treks that tested more than the endurance of my body. I've climbed jagged mountainsides with sore feet and heart, reaching my destination with relief swimming in my eyes.

But my eyes are dry today.

And my target in the distance isn't one I relish meeting.

My boots clack against the smooth flooring, betrayers taking me steps closer, though I will them to be still. Yet I can't blame them, really.

Because, at times like this, I wish I weren't so utterly bound by the Code. I know it's laced me together with those I cherish most-Tahl, Obi-Wan-but concurrently it tightens every last string, tethering me to the Order and tying my hands.

Obligation is what truly carries me down these strips of cool silver hallway (and gods if it doesn't seem like the splintering dark wood of a plank!).

But, deeper than that, the veritable power cell of my system, is my obligation to my apprentice. 

Obligation. Hm. Is it even that? I can't be sure.

I don't feel constricted by my responsibility to him. Wanting to care for him, to flip the pages of the history book to a section I know he'll love…those urges don't choke or jerk my neck like rough-hewn rope.

Rather they pull together what was unraveling inside me.

I stop in the middle of the corridor, on the brink of doubling over--

Or discarding my duties to the Council and running back to him, pulling him from that huge, insecure, crowded arena and every possible threat I can and then these awful, gray, clustering clouds can lift from my mind and I won't have the frenzy of worrying and _he _won't worry and he'll be alright and safe gods I just want him to be safe--

"Master Jinn?"

A voice threads through my thoughts and my head rises. I blink to clear the mist from my eyes. "Master Meelon…h-hello."

She offers a _sympathetic?_ Smile, a relatively young woman with a thick body, wrapped in a soft lavender tunic with chestnut boots the same tone as her hair, long and waving to her waist. Her blue eyes--striking in similarity to the shade of Obi-Wan's-fix on me. "You were a bit late. I was checking to be sure you remembered our appointment." She explains, not unkindly.

And then I realize how long I must have been standing in the hall. A flush heats my frozen body. "I apologize, Master." We're not far from the small collection of psychiatric offices within the Temple and walk to them wordlessly.

"I hope the--circumstances surrounding our meeting doesn't sour your opinion of it, or me, Master Jinn." Meelon confides after awhile, gaze steady on my face as the door slides open. "I sense the disruptions within you. I know you don't want to be here."

I follow her inside. It's a quaint, well-lit room, smelling faintly of some sort of sweet spice. 

But the most glittering luxuries can't distract me from the fact that this is a prison.

Nevertheless, I take a seat on a long, narrow couch. "With all due respect, Master Meelon, not many would accept the invitation gladly." I wait for her to sit in a crisp, cream desk chair across from me. "After all, this is only happening because Councilor Windu believes me too incompetent to teach my own Padawan."

Her pale, naturally blushed face is lit by the lamps behind her. "Now I don't think incompetent is the appropriate word, Master Jinn. You're an extremely capable Jedi and have taught Padawan Kenobi well."

__

Until now, right? "And, from your reputation, I know you're a very gifted mind healer. But honestly I don't see where I need your help."

She tilts her chin against a finger. "You don't find anything wrong with the present situation with your apprentice?"

There isn't any hidden or sharp cynicism in her inquiry. It's but a genuine question…and I can answer it easily. "No. He's a bright student who continuously excels in whatever he focuses on."

"But that nature has been stilted recently, hasn't it? He refused the offer to read his speech at--"

"That was his decision and no one should argue with it." I snap back. I don't care to hear the rest. I've heard it often enough.

Her eyes are unaffected by my outburst, jewels of azure that look…like his…But there are no bruises to frame them. So what can she know of pain, of his pain and his reasons for turning down the Chancellor's request?

"When you believe your apprentice is wrong in his thinking--do you not argue with him? She wonders gently.

I release a breath. "He wasn't wrong."

"That isn't what I asked." She responds with a maddening calm. "I asked if you seek to correct you apprentice when he errs."

"If you're inferring that--"

"I'm not inferring anything, Master Jinn." Her voice is slow and attempts--unsuccessfully-to be disarming. "I simply want to know if you argue with him when he is wrong."

__

He WASN'T wrong. "Yes. When I think he's making a serious mistake, I talk with him and I advise him."

"Does he become angry when you make such interventions?"

Just imagining Obi-Wan in a state of ire is difficult, and completely unrealistic. I don't think he could scream a curse to save his life…

My eyes seal as a pain shocks my chest. Did he ever scream…then?

"Master Jinn?"

I shudder and open my eyes to her again. "Obi-Wan doesn't show anger, but when he disagrees, he makes it known in his own way. Mostly a, a stifled frustration."

"And does that hinder you from making your point heard?"

"No. I know it's for his ultimate benefit and in the end he'll understand why I objected his actions." I shake my head with an ironic smile as the true meaning of her line of questioning dawns. "I thought you weren't making any inferences, Master Meelon?"

She shrugs her small shoulders. "What you perceive is in your own power."

I want badly to tell her how wrong she is--for suddenly, I feel wholly powerless.


	18. Beneath the Surface

****

Ewan's girl Thanks so much! And I'm kinda worried about writing the companion piece--I think Obi-Wan's POV is always so much more difficult! **Shanobi** I feel so honored that I would even be compared to Cas. She was an amazing writer--I hope she finds her way back to this fandom. **Athena Leigh** Thank you so much. 

****

Eighteen: Beneath the Surface

My entire body is shaking in small, icy quakes, deep under my skin, where the eye cannot possibly delve--and so, somehow, is all the more painful. I don't know where the anger is coming from, the outrage that's passing from physical to mental, to the overtaxed wires of my mind, but it's hurling itself like a squall, leaving nothing untouched. 

And I'm in the midst of the ocean, my arms working to rise above chopping waves, screaming…saying…

"If all you plan to accomplish during this meeting is playing cruel mind games, then forgive me if I take my leave of you."

I don't wait for the last word to fall from my numb mouth before I stand.

__

That's it. I'll get out of here. Get out of this damn place and forget the nonsense. Get out and find Obi-Wan. 

Gods for a moment, it felt as though the past few months were a transparency, settled over something else, but too insubstantial to conceal what was beneath…what was before it. 

__

Get out and find Obi-Wan.

How often did that thought surge through my system, when I was walking empty halls and pacing empty rooms and seeing their utter vacancy and feeling that same void, cold and aching, within the deserted chambers of my heart? 

"Master Jinn, please sit down."

Her voice is a coax, but sweet berries can burst sour. Nothing is as it appears, not Master Meelon or that person sitting alone in the corner booth or the glass of dark red juice with poison swirling beneath the surface. 

__

I can't. I have to find him.

I hear her take a step toward me, feel her hand barely upon my shoulder. "Who, Qui-Gon? Who do you have to find?"

I fight to keep my knees from buckling. _H-How? _"Are you a mind reader as well?" I croak, looking at her porcelain-pale face.

She shakes her head. "You said that just now. Out loud. Who do you have to find?"

I bring a trembling hand to wipe at my mouth. "I-I just wanted to check with my apprentice's progress."

Gently, she leads me back to the slender couch, then replaces her seat on the chair. "He's training with Master Windu, isn't he? In the sparring arena?"

I nod.

Her brows knit for a brief instance. "Then why did you say you needed to _find _him? His location was already known by you."

I rest my sweating palms on my knees. More than shivering now, I'm seething. "That doesn't mean _anything. _I'm not there with him, am I? So how can I be sure…" My breath struggles "Sure where he really is? 

"That's a constant uncertainty in life. No one can be positive where another is all the time. Unless you pin them in place, like an insect, you _can't_ have complete control. You have to trust that Obi-Wan will be where you left him. You have to trust _in him_, Qui-Gon."

I close my eyes and shake my head. "I trust him more than I've ever trusted another soul." I lift my gaze, and at last I can feel a total abandon, allowing the fear and grief to flood my eyes. "But trust isn't enough. I trusted him on our last mission and those…cretins stole him away. They _took _him from his bed while I slept. What good did trust do then?"

"Threats will always exist. All around us, at any time, something unexpected could happen." She leans forward, and clasps my hands in hers. "But if we spend all our lives preparing for what _could _happen, nothing else _will _happen, and what kind of lives would those be worth saving?"

I pull my hands away and stand again. "You can talk about your simple, neat little theories all you like, but that's all they are. They're words strung together. In reality, they don't mean a thing."

On this attempt, I'm able to start out the door.

"Do you think Obi-Wan believes that?"

I refrain from putting a hand to my heart, stopped dead in the doorway, staring into the corridor.

"Do you think Obi-Wan believes they're false, Master Jinn? When he's locked in the apartment, sensing his Master's unending distress and unable to help, himself or his Master, escape? Is his pain meaningless?"

I wheel around. "Of course it's not. Don't you understand? It's all I can _think about_. How much he suffered when he was kidnapped, how long he woke afterwards, shocked to be in his own room, under his own blankets. If Obi-Wan doesn't agree with my methods of protecting him, then he would've told me. I would _know._"

Her pallor isn't even flushed by the debate. "You mentioned that Obi-Wan excels in whatever he chooses to pursue, didn't you?"

I blink, irritated by this veer off the subject matter. "Yes."

"Then if he wanted to shield himself from you, he would only need to work at it awhile, right? It's very possible that he's blocking his emotions from you."

"That's _not_ possible. I told him not to close his mind from mine. He wouldn't disobey me."

Meelon pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. "Even if doing so was in what he believed to be your best interest? "

I smile bitterly. "In any case, it still isn't possible. Obi-Wan is incredibly gifted, but I'm much older and far more experienced than he is. He doesn't have the skills to block me entirely."

"Have you ever underestimated Obi-Wan's capabilities?"

"Never to the extreme this situation would require. It would be a breach in the Master/apprentice guidelines. If I know anything about Obi-Wan, I know he doesn't stray from rules."

"And is he ever influenced by his Master, the rogue rule-breaker of the Temple? Does he know how to gauge one rule's supremacy over another?" She counters. "Would his dedication to his Master, as his Padawan from a young age, outweigh his responsibility to lesser points of the Code?" 

__

Shut up. "He knows that a stifled communication between us worries me."

"But would he be worrying you more if he revealed what he was truly feeling?"

"How would _you_ know what he's feeling?" I snap. "_I_ sat up with him in the hospital after nightmares and shushed those horrible flurries of words, when he wouldn't let me leave the room and wouldn't sleep for _hours_ after waking."

"What horrible words?" She prompts, fingers curled under her chin. "What did he say?"

__

Oh Sith I can't talk about this. "H-He was talking about what happened while he was held captive. He was by himself, and he---he was scared he wasn't going to see me again."

"And then you would quiet him."

"Of course. He didn't need to relive that."

"And you didn't need to hear that, did you?" 

My stomach tenses. "_No._"

Her mouth is a painted flat line. "So whenever he would talk about his imprisonment, you would shush him. How much time passed before he stopped talking about it altogether?"

"About three weeks. Just a little while after he returned to the apartment."

She pauses for nearly a minute. "Yes, you've certainly proved to me that Obi-Wan excels quickly at what he focuses on. He caught on that you didn't want to hear about his captivity, that it pained you to listen to it, so he stopped talking about it. But he still thought about it. He couldn't erase the memories from his mind, even if he erased the words from his spoken vocabulary. So to save you from pain, he needed to block you partially from his thoughts. 

"When he was in the hospital, he didn't want you to leave his room?"

I want to rage at her, but there's nothing to say--yet. "No, he didn't."

She exhales. "And you didn't?"

"No."

"So he was trying to latch on to familiarity, to security. A natural reaction in his situation. But a healthy progression would be to slowly detach himself from that need. For you to leave, so that he could readjust himself to being alone and being comfortable in his singularity. 

"But you didn't leave him. You stayed with him all the time and fed his fears, enabling him to become dependent on your presence…Because you were equally dependent on his."

My lungs are clogged with disbelief and I sputter for a moment. "He was still healing and he _needed _me. I wasn't going to walk out and leave him there on his own."

"Because he was on his own so long? Because _you _were on your own when he was gone?"

"I find nothing wrong with my behavior _or _his."

"I know you don't, Master Jinn. And I can appreciate why." She reaches for my hand again. "When Obi-Wan stopped talking about the months when he was missing, when he turned down the Chancellor's request, when he all but disappeared from the Temple, save the apartment, he was doing more than comforting himself. In fact, I don't think it was actually comforting for him at all. It put _your _mind at ease, and gave you the ability to monitor him constantly--so that you wouldn't need to worry, to race out of a room to find him where he's being taught by a close friend, within the same building as you.

"Once you enabled him, he enabled you, until your entire existences dwindled down to living within the walls of your quarters. You've been the pillar of perfection to him since he was thirteen, so he wouldn't judge you for what you're doing. Even when it hurts him."

I shudder a sigh. "I don't want to hurt him."

"I know, Qui-Gon. This entire problem stems from that. Your world revolves around him, ensuring his safety and wellbeing. It's called secondary narcissism, when your mindset is unfailingly focused on another person, causing other parts of your life to crumble." She smiles sadly. "And may be to blame for those dark circles under your eyes."

And it's now that I realize how bone-tired I truly am.


	19. Last Boundaries

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Ewan's girl Thank you. It's kind of difficult to grasp Qui-Gon in that he still has duties to the Jedi, but he's becoming conflicted by them. I hope I'm getting that across alright. **Seung Mina6 **Thanks! **Athena Leigh **Thanks for your support, as always. 

****

Nineteen: Last Boundaries 

"How much _have _you been sleeping, on average?"

__

No. She can't ask me that no one's asked me not even Obi-Wan no one needs to know that…she doesn't understand. After all this and she simply doesn't understand. I press my hand against my forehead.

__

I don't want to know how long it's been.

Doesn't she know it's so much easier when I don't know? 

"I have what energy I need."

My answer ripples throughout the office, echoing again and again the falsity of it, the little lie gnawing with dull, irrepressible teeth inside me. 

"If we're going to make anything better, you have to be honest with me." She implores, in that calm voice of hers. "Dodging questions isn't the way.

"How much have you been sleeping?"

My fingers are straining stone against my chin, struggling not to crack, to allow the truth to seep through. "I don't see where this is relevant. I'm mobile, aren't I? I'm functioning as well as I ever have--"

"Maybe this is a more fitting question: When was the last time you _actually _slept? When you laid down on a pillow and just slept?"

Being reminded of that simple comfort leaves a distant ache in my chest. Sleep. Plain, pure rest. Warm blankets or cool sheets. An uncomplicated release.

But when is it without that horrible intricacy, of securing all the doors and windows, of erasing every shadow and fighting…fighting the thoughts that swarm in and buzz shrill in my ears…

I fix my eyes on Meelon, dry, resigned eyes. And I say nothing.

She doesn't betray her frustration. For all the external world, she's as amiable as she was when we entered the room a few eternities ago. 

Yet I catch the subtle drop of her sapphire, gray-flecked gaze before it lifts once more. 

__

Yes. Now you must know you're wrong. Because I know this is the only way. 

"I can see you're not too keen on answering that question. I understand. It's fairly personal." She crosses her arms. "So maybe I can approach from another angle. 

"When was the last time Obi-Wan slept?"

NO. The last boundary, the one that _cannot _be crossed, has been obliterated with a few thoughtless words. 

And I can't abide it. 

"My apprentice is _fine, _Master Meelon. Perhaps you've had more training into the machinations of the mind, but you've never lived through what I have, what he has. And you certainly don't live within our quarters, or else you would know that Obi-Wan sleeps from half past tenth chime every night to sixth the next morning. And he doesn't have those nightmares anymore." I rise from the couch, wishing I could hurl it out the window…do anything to extinguish the furious conflagration within me. "So it seems that your ammunition has run out and your theories have as well." I rip my eyes from her in disgust, and tramp from the room in a sort of daze, not feeling the pound of my feet on the floor, nor the reverberations going wild in my chest. 

__

That's right I'm right she doesn't understand she doesn't KNOW how can she think she knows?

I stop at the lift, unaware how I came so far so quickly while spinning inside my own mind, in darkness and scarlet anger, while the Temple lights glare like the yellow, focused blaze of interrogation. 

"She doesn't understand." I murmur.

And it's a new mantra to repeat as I travel to the level of the sparring arena. A flexible incantation. I can attach any name I wish, because it applies to everyone outside myself.

I hasten down the hall, just barely below a sprint.

__

Mace doesn't understand.

Only Obi-Wan would understand, I don't need to explain myself to him.

__

They don't understand.

I enter the opened doors of the training pit…and freeze. For a moment, I'm adhered in place and my heart plummets to the ground.

"Obi-Wan!"


	20. Venom and Betrayal

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Ewan's girl_ This hopefully won't make Qui Gon worse._ Uh…. **Shanobi **_You are doing a great job with him - even though I want to smack him into reality. _Hee hee..Thanks. The Obi-Wan perspective is gonna be incredibly difficult, and I'm not sure I have a good enough handle on him for it to come out at all believable. **Athena Leigh **Thanks!

****

  
**Twenty: Venom and Betrayal **

Simultaneously, the arena shrinks to a cell, walls closing in and smothering me, and stretches out into oblivion, pulling Obi-Wan further away in the endless chasm between us. 

I hear my voice echo and I don't know if the trembling comes from within me, or from the intensity of my call, vibrating my surroundings. 

But in either case it doesn't matter. 

They were wrong. I know that, without a scintilla of doubt now. They were _wrong _and _I _was wrong…to leave him, for even a moment, to trust him to anyone, to close my eyes, although I wasn't the one shoving at the lids. 

I run toward him, my head feeling detached, adrift in an atmosphere of regret, clouded with fear. 

__

Gods no I knew this would happen I knew if I left him…

The pillow thrown off the bed in the Ejhlon palace.

__

His empty bed, in his empty room.

Him sitting on the hospital cot, his face a crosshatch of cuts and bruises.

And now…

__

Gods it will never end the fear will never end the pain will NEVER end…

At last I've reached him, just when my blood is at a nearly unbearable boil. I brace his shoulders with quivering hands.

"Padawan, what happened?!" I wipe at his sweaty face, where there's still a faded, purpled contusion from his imprisonment. "Are you alright?"

I half-expect him to vanish from my sight, for me, after my desperation, to ultimately be too late, to fail--again. 

But he remains beside me, on a floor-level bench in the arena stands, a bandage wrapped in layers around his upper left arm. 

__

'You won't have him'. I said it to the darkness, to the cruel, criminal hands of midnight…but I've tossed him into the murky palms, as surely as I'm standing here.

He's hurt. He's injured. So, in truth, I _have _failed. As a Master, I didn't protect him. And as…a father, I let my obligations to the Order eclipse my care for him.

"I'm fine, Master." He replies, a crease joining his brows. "I just missed blocking a blow. It's already stopped bleeding."

__

Bleeding? I shake my head, turning around, briefly touching the raised, unhealed puff of flesh on his lip.

Mace is a few feet away, and I make no move to close the gap. "_You." _I whisper. "_You _force me into a ridiculous, _meaningless _exercise, claiming it was done in worry, in friendship…But look at what it's caused. I am no different. I never even needed to--" I let the end of the sentence dwindle off. _I_ am not what's at issue here. "I am no different and my Padawan is only worse off for your harmful efforts."

His dark eyes shift from me to Obi-Wan, for a sliver of a moment, before falling to me again. I never guessed, in all our years as compatriots, as partners in now-famous Temple exploits, he would do this. That he would turn out to be nothing more than a betrayer, someone who would prevent me from shielding my apprentice from pain. 

Who would wield the instrument of his pain. 

And gods I can barely look at Mace now. I find myself cringing inwardly as his voice fills the arena. 

"Obi-Wan is a Jedi, Qui-Gon. If he shies away every time he's nicked by the blade--"

"Then he'll be unharmed!" I shout, the venom of my anger and frustration bubbling up my throat. 

Mace merely blinks, his mouth in a solemn frown. "And he'll never grow. He'll never be anything but your apprentice." 

I bite the inside skin of my mouth to keep from saying what resounds in my heart. _What's wrong with that? _

I hear Obi-Wan shift behind me and I turn around, feeling the heat drain from my face. "Let's go." 


	21. Too Late

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Shanobi _Oh, dear. I do hope that Obi is not as bad off as Qui. He seems to be handling it better, but since we're only seeing Qui's warped perceptions -it's hard to say._ I think your worries are well-founded. **Athena Leigh **_Nutbag._ Oh my! Hee hee. Glad you're enjoying. 

****

Twenty One: Too Late

In some cultures, ancient techniques of torture are still invoked, many souls suffer the grisly carnage of others' cruelty.

And often, the victims are completely innocent.

One such instrument is a small room, in which the walls slowly close in, to crush the unfortunate being trapped within. To multiply the torment, jagged spikes are ground into the brick or granite…

Or steel, so that when they scramble desperately for a way out, they are clawed by the glinting points, they can feel the draw of warm blood against their flesh.

I am fortunate, in that the scene of my agony is a hallway, stretched out, offering escape, if my feet match the rapid speed of my heart.

But the spikes are still there, like arms attempting to restrain, jutting out at me, in the form of Mace's words, Meelon's theories…And yet my skin is galvanized by the impenetrable armor of Obi-Wan's trusting expression, never doubting or condemning my need to run and hide…

__

Hide?

Is that what I'm doing now, rushing myself and my charge from the open space to a safe little set of rooms with solid walls and…

__

I do what I must. 

I DO what I MUST.

And that has to be enough to quiet the sinister hisses in my head.

I've come too far, seven years, dodged enough landmines crouching under the dirt, to throw Obi-Wan into the core of them now.

__

Seven years.

But I don't really think that way anymore. Not in the traditional terms of a calendar, but in the regular cycle of the sky. Every day is a struggle, to be sure he's still there when the moon rises, still there when it sinks to the horizon again. And seven years…Perhaps I've become distracted by the intensification of my duties to him…Because it can't be seven years. There's so much left to share…

He hasn't been to Trablav, that tiny spot of a planet where they have fields full of his favorite fruit and wide, glittering ocean that would take days to explore…and that would only be the shore of it…We've only just tread the sand and I can't have him taken from me, not by the demon sneaking in the window or the out-of-control speeder veering onto the sidewalk or someone who believes they know better than me how to ensure his happiness…Doesn't anyone understand that…

And there's a hot churning in the base of my neck, spilling onto my shoulders, such as I've never experienced before, not even when I sliced the ring of a terrible villain, only to watch it sizzle against the cheek of my apprentice, branding him forever.

I will _not _lose Obi-Wan, unscathed by evil, smiling without pretense, waking early to prepare a (blackened) breakfast and carrying the gloss of Force-blessed stars in his eyes.

"Master…"

I wet my lips. "Obi-Wan, I will explain what happened. Once we're home."

"No…Master I…"

And there's a breathlessness to his voice that causes me to turn around, just as he falls to the floor.

I'm a second too late to catch him.

"Obi-Wan!" I crash to my knees beside his lax form and turn him onto his back.

His face is a colorless version of itself, his mouth slack. The sweat of the duel remains shining on his forehead. 

__

Oh gods oh gods force oh gods Obi-Wan..

With quivering hands, I brush the hair from his eyes, to see if there's a pulse of movement beneath the lids.

"Obi-Wan?!" 

I slap his cheek, but his head merely lolls to the side.

My vision suddenly swathed in gray, I gather him in my arms and dash down the corridor, into the very bowels of the torture contraption I so wanted to be freed of. 


	22. Relief

Ewan's girl Thank you so much. Sorry for the wait. **Seung **You'll see. **Athena** No, not good--at least not on the surface. 

Twenty Two: Relief

__

Oh gods I don't want to be here it looks the same it smells just the same as when

I feel cold, sitting on a molded plastic chair in the waiting area, my hands unable to cease their restless tapping and shaking. I rub them together, but it's like rubbing ice into my raw skin, and I only become colder

__

When I was here before and I sat for so long I just sat and couldn't do anything and all because I couldn't protect him…I still can't. He wouldn't be here otherwise he would be home we'd be home and safe oh gods what happened what's wrong with him what made him collapse like that just fall dead away and I was so close but I couldn't get to him in time he wouldn't answer me he didn't even twitch what's wrong with him oh dear Force what's the matter with him

Colder, a figure formed of gooseflesh and shiver, blind to everything except the closed door, the second door down the hallway. The healers ripped him from my arms and placed him on a stretcher, then rolled him away, sealing him off from me. The stretcher squeaked 

__

I can still hear it pounding in my head, searing in my ears, squeaking and shrieking

And now there is only silence. No one has left that room, not to tell me what caused him to faint, not to tell me he's breathing. I run Force-fingers along our connection, but he's only present on the most basic level.

__

At least I have that much--this time. 

A healer Padawan is behind the reception desk, her trio of eyes downcast. I know there's nothing she can do, a second or third year apprentice, but that doesn't stop my jaw from setting. 

__

How can she just sit there, calm as anything, while Obi-Wan is behind that damn door? 

I lean my head into my head. "Force." I whisper. My stomach is an unrelieved visceral ache, churning and bubbling with dread. 

__

Please. He must be alright. 

The last time he was in my arms _cannot_ be when he was ashen and unconscious. There is no explanation for this. He wasn't ill. He shouldn't be in there. This isn't supposed to happen. He should be with me, and if he's in my arms, he should be awake, whole, not limp or battered. 

A short beep announces a door opening, and I shoot my head up.

The healer who took him from me is approaching, a wintered man in white tunics. "Master Jinn."

I nearly leap to my feet, heart breaking all records of beating. "How is he?"

"He's fine."

__

Thank the Force. My eyes close, as some of the panic eases. _Thank the Force. _When my vision refocuses, I can better see the healer's broad features, his intently carved face. "What happened?"

"It's fairly evident by your apprentice's readouts that his body is in a stage of exhaustion. He isn't dehydrated, which is very good, but his strength has been severely diminished nonetheless." He purses thin lips. "I haven't put him on any sedatives. For now, he's resting satisfactorily without them. I did connect him to a basic intravenous feeder, so that he _doesn't _become dehydrated while he's asleep. I don't expect him to wake from anywhere to three to seven hours, at the very least. And even after that, he'll need to take things slow to regain the energy expended."

"Can I see him?"

The healer hesitates. "As long as you don't attempt to wake him."

I say in passing, almost absently, that I won't, striding toward the door, overcome with fluttery relief. _My Obi-Wan. You're alright._


	23. Dark Weariness

Twenty Three: Dark Weariness

The room is a plain white cube, pristine in a sterile, steely sense. I walk inside, and am rapturous to hear not _one single _monitor. No indifferent beeps, mechanically tracking something that deserves more tender attention, no strips of bacta-soaked bandage. 

There is only a bed. And Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan, beneath a cool, cream sheet, his eyes closed against the muted glow of afternoon coming in from the small window. My Padawan, breathing in and out, in quaint, comforting harmony. The focus of my existence, asleep---

Within the confines of a hospital.

Clammy gooseflesh rises on my skin as I approach the narrow cot, and I look away, for a brief flash of time, uttering a soft curse. 

It had been my aim to protect him from this very situation, and it doesn't matter that he isn't gravely injured, that his rest is voluntary and his dreams are untainted by medicinal fog. He's still _here_, recovering when he should be home.

I stop beside the bed and gingerly smooth a hair out of his face. "It seems I've failed miserably, my young apprentice." I murmur with a rueful, pained smile. "I wanted to shield you from harm, to sacrifice my sleep so that you could be unafraid of your own …Now here you are, pushed to exhaustion." I take wispy auburn tips between my fingers. "And I don't believe I'll ever sleep again."

His head is turned to the side, away from me, and I want to tilt it the other way, to have him hear these words…

__

No. He doesn't need to hear. It would only disturb him.

My hand stills.

__

It…already has.

I swallow, frowning, my gaze falling to his slumber-softened countenance again. Dark weariness rims his eyes.

__

I stand watch every night…and he's asleep…

But here he is, tired to this…extreme.

My touch falls completely away.

__

'The link of Master and Apprentice is symbiotic. Just as the Force fuses with the blood, they lean on one another, they intermingle, as a single mind.'

A basic definition, one that's regularly dosed to a Jedi from their earliest steps in training. Any member of the Order could provide it quickly.

But I, a seasoned Master, have let it be forsaken, have forgotten the deepest implements of the bond. 

While trying desperately to save him from encroaching darkness, to preserve my heart…I have neglected his. 

__

Oh gods I…

I rush to the communicator, eyes darting over the labeled buttons.

__

Psychology. 

Trembling, I push down. 

__

Gods let her be there I have to talk to her I have to talk to someone I can't take this I can't stand this there must be something else I couldn't have caused this I only want him to be safe he must understand that he's the only one who could understand why doesn't he know….

"This is Healer Meelon. I've stepped away, but if you leave…"

I strangle the scream in my throat and wheel around, my hands grasping my temples. My mind is invaded by visions, of waking to the empty room, running to the transport, seeing him wheeled out, not being able to talk to him, all the machines all the cords and swearing that it would never be allowed to happen again, everything would be different everything would be secure for him for me that we would make up for the time lost that he would never be taken again that he would never leave he would never leave me…

There's a short knock at the door.

I blink, aware all at once that I'm panting for breath, and beads of sweat have prickled my face. 

I smooth out my tunic and clear my throat. "Yes?"

Meelon appears from behind the door. "Master Jinn. Master Windu told me what happened."

I nod numbly, my mind racing while my body stalls. _I have to do something I can't live with this this can't be my fault I… _"Ejhlon." I blurt.

She frowns. "What do you me--"

"I haven't slept since the day they brought Obi-Wan back from Ejhlon." I repeat, slower. My eyes moisten. "I-I can't."


	24. Home Lost

Twenty Four: Home Lost 

Calmly, her pale blue eyes never straying, the healer walks closer, stopping at a comfortable distance from me. "You haven't slept since that day?"

I inhale behind clamped lips, then nod. 

She crosses her arms and her lavender tunic rustles in the silence. I want to know what she's thinking, what condemnations she's already drawn up in her discerning, educated mind, what new and damning syndromes my insomnia falls under. 

Perhaps now I've settled the noose around my neck and my feet are in danger of loosing contact with the earth. 

But at least, if I've designed my own execution, Obi-Wan has been spared his place beside me there. 

"Master Jinn," She begins, "We're talking _months _of continuous consciousness."

I pull at the coarse rope to allow myself room to nod.

She breathes out. "In itself, that is a gigantic feat. But you haven't halted your normal activities--_demanding_ physical and mental activities."

"I couldn't stop them. My apprentice has to be trained." I explain my actions with intrinsic impulse, a half-plea underneath. If I'm to be reprimanded, Obi-Wan _cannot_ be left to flounder without a proper instructor. My hands fist beneath my tunic sleeves, and it feels like my heart's been pressed into the palms, and is being squeezed to the breaking point. 

"And he's lying here, being treated for exhaustion." Meelon observes. "So what state would that put _you _in, Master? Because I'm fairly certain that he's slept more than you have these past few months."

"I'm unconcerned with such a comparison." I answer honestly, striving not to sound spiteful or, for the first time in my life, rebellious. "I don't care what effect this is having on _me. _I--I was trying to contact you, Healer Meelon, when you walked in."

Her eyes widen, for a small beat, in surprise. 

"I was trying to contact you because I'm beginning--I'm beginning to realize what effect this is having on my Padawan. I've been so afraid of losing him, of something happening that would take him away from me…as it did on Ejhlon…that I demanded no shields be placed around his thoughts. That way, I would never have to worry…because I would be tuned in to him--always. 

"But I allowed myself to forget how strong he is. I guess I…let my knowledge of his captivity weaken my perception of his abilities. I began to think of him as something I had to hold very close, or he would wander away, or break. I forgot my own teachings." I sigh. "I forgot all the shielding techniques I've shown him in the past. I didn't believe he was hearing the fear and agitation in my thoughts…but he was…gods for him to be here he must've heard it all…but he was able to block that off from me." Hopelessly weary, I sink into the chair beside his bed. "And I'm sure if I had any idea, I pushed it aside…because it would be easier to continue the way things were going, if I was under the illusion that he was totally oblivious." I rest my forehead in my hand. 

Meelon tilts her head toward me, a rippling drift of brown hair falling to soften her profile. "Now, Qui-Gon, do you believe he _was _oblivious?"

I snort against the rough heel of my hand. "No. Every night that I sat in his room, waiting for the monster to leap from the shadows or a blaster bolt to shatter the window, he was awake along with me. Maybe his…eyes weren't open, but his mind was, soaking it up. " I glance over at him, a painful mistake, for the rain I had until now held at bay is descending like rapids from my eyes. 

I feel a light weight on my shoulder and see Meelon standing there. "You've always been a rational man. To Obi-Wan, I'm sure you're much more. 

"And if you're on guard against monsters and blaster bolts, then he'll believe they're real. Eventually, your fears convinced him of that. If you warn him of an enemy, he will have every faith that the enemy is a true threat, and stand at attention, waiting for that enemy to strike, just as you've taught him."

"But the enemy is real." I debate hoarsely. "He was kidnapped by the enemy on Ejhlon."

"And he's stubbed his toe on his desk before. That doesn't mean you assume every desk will harm him the same way and shut him away from them, until he's just as terrified of desks as you are."

I smile, staring down at the floor. "That's not quite the same thing."

"The people who took Obi-Wan were living creatures. Master Windu is also a living creature. One who would _never_ place your apprentice in danger. You were in near hysterics because Mace led Obi-Wan in a spar for an hour. And you cut him off from his friends…"

"It isn't that I distrust Bant or Garen or any of his friends. But if they left the Temple…"

"There would be massive amounts of living creatures, in swarms, everywhere, waiting to steal him away just as the men on Ejhlon did."

"I'm not insane for wanting to protect him." I state. "I had seven months to think of what I would've done if he was never taken…what I would say to him, how I would treat him, where I would take him. It was like a dream I went to. A-And then he was home again, and all of a sudden I could do all the things I could only dream about before--I could talk to him, I could just sit in the silence and look at his face, the face that was restricted to old holocubes for so damn long. How could I--how can I--let go, even a little bit, now that he's home again?"

She smiles, very faintly. "Because if you don't let go, then he'll never be home."

I look at her, too drained to question what she's saying.

"He's in the Temple, of course, but that's just a technical sense of the word. He came back, but not to the same Master. He left a prison and returned to the Temple to find a warden."

"We still eat together, we still talk."

"As long as you do so within the confines of your quarters."

I run my fingers through my hair, but it does nothing to alleviate the swelling ache growing in my head. "It's safer that way. I'm still the same person--I am, but now I'm more aware of…my surroundings."

"Because your surroundings are limited to a few rooms and a door that can be locked against the outside world. "

"I--" But then, words fill my skull, words made more painful by the accent that shapes them. 

__

"Maybe…Maybe tonight we could go to the Gardens, Master. Or the fountains."

And I can hear the echo of my thoughts, the automatic 'no' to his very small request. He must've been disappointed, but _that _I refused to hear, it could have punched a hole in all my defenses. 

He must have known that, too, and to protect _me, _he turned down the Chancellor's offer to read his speech, he didn't attempt to sit with his friends in the cafeteria…He assured me he would go directly to our quarters after his match with Mace.

__

Oh….dear….force…

I press my balled hand against my temple. 

__

"He'll never be anything but your apprentice." 

Gods why didn't I find any error in that? _Why _was I content to rob him of his normal advancement, to bottle up his potential and keep it safely stowed within the apartment, within my control as his teacher? 

Miserably, I raise my gaze to Meelon. "Don't take him away…I think I'll die if I lose him."

"Then you're dooming yourself to an early grave, Qui-Gon. Every Master loses their Padawan…to Knighthood." She says--knowingly, as if I were projecting every last thought that passed through my brain. "And if you try to stop that…it just might kill you both, in the worst way."

She squeezes my shoulder, then slips out of the room. 


	25. Reconciling With Consciousness

Twenty Five: Reconciling with Consciousness 

The sultry tint of dusk has fallen to Coruscant in a shroud of amethyst and rose. It will be night soon. The sun is beckoned to rest--

And it seems my Padawan is beckoned to rise, his eyelids pulsing weakly. 

His sleep was an encounter with oblivion, the healer told me, without memorable dreams or distraction. Down in the dregs of exhaustion, he was completely absorbed, and spent the last six hours in replenishing darkness.

His body has begun to heal from its deprivations. 

But his mind--and mine--are far from that stage of convalescence. 

I've been beside him, stopped on a path in my own twilight, yearning for the weak echoes of light to reach me again, for the damage to be mended.

I was asking for a miracle. Sitting in the little hospital chair, I was hunched over, elbows to knees, praying with a whirling mind that we could just forget all that's happened. 

Finally, Obi-Wan was asleep, in true respite.

And I wanted to be with him, afloat on still, soothing waters. I wanted to exist on such a plane where I wouldn't have to deal with my mistakes, I wouldn't be forced to face the hurt I've caused, despite its unintentional nature. 

But I've yet to sleep. Every thought is rife with guilt. Each breath is drawn with remembrance of my selfish behavior. 

__

I closed him in. _I _shackled him to his pain with rusting, heavy chains, chains of a father's love for his only child, a blinding love that eventually plugged the ears as well, to the sound of dragging chains against the prison floor. 

And now he's slowly reconciling with consciousness, after his abrupt detachment, and I see the confused lines mapped out on his face. 

I almost wish he would slip away once more, if even for another moment or two, to give me the time to prepare…

His eyes open to slits. I can catch searching pupils beneath the fine flutter of lashes. He frowns.

Smiling gently, I sit forward and lay my hand against his temple. "It's alright, Padawan."

With a jittering series of blinks, Obi-Wan sits up and immediately his expression is overcome with dread, embarrassment. "Master? I---" He glances around. "I'm sorry…I must've.."

I clasp his hand. "There's no apologies to be said--not on your part, anyway." I appraise his face, remaining a bit pale in the sunset's ambiance, the dark, crescent moon appearing early beneath his eyes. 

__

You've done nothing wrong. It was all me. Everything was my foolishness.

"Do you remember what happened?"

He moistens his lips. "I was with Master Windu…"

I feel heat in my face.

"And then I left with you and I was trying to tell you…then you said you'd explain." He shakes his head, clears his throat and looks at me. "I'm sorry, Master. I should have told you sooner. It never should've happened"

"You're correct about that." I smooth the bristles of his hair flattened from the pillow. My stomach is cold and restless. "It _never_ should have happened, my Padawan."

His eyes drift to the window, where a slit of the outside world peeks out from the parted drapes. "Gods, it's almost nighttime." He observes in astonishment. 

"I know." I murmur, without thinking. "I'll see if we can get you out of here." Walking towards the door, conviction seeps into my heart. _And tonight WILL be different. _

I cross into the hallway and am a little surprised to find Master Meelon seated on a bench. At once she's aware of my presence and smiles.

"Is he awake?"

I nod. "He's groggy. I'm hoping…" My eyes drop involuntarily. "I'm hoping I can take him home now."

She stands, her blue eyes somehow enhanced now that the cosmetic has faded around them. "In what way do you mean?"

I smile wearily. "Whatever way that'll make him happy."

"Then you know what you have to do." Meelon says, quietly. "A cage will still look the same to its occupant, even if that occupant is well-rested."

"I know. A-And thank you, for helping me and my apprentice."

"Ah, you hand me too much credit." She grins. "Only _you _can help your apprentice." She leans in. "And I think he's waiting as we speak."

I touch her shoulder. "Force bless you."

Then, I return to the small room, on legs that have numbed--but with a mind that is, at last, waking.


	26. Rest

Twenty Six: Rest

I brace Obi-Wan's shoulders with my arm. He's still quite tired, and needs the measure of steadying support as we walk down the last strip of hallway leading to the apartment. "Almost there." I say, trying my best to sound cheerful. 

They're the first words either of us have spoken since leaving the hospital--and I hope they don't come across as strained as I feel they have. It was easy to communicate within the walls of the healer's ward. We were both pulled together by the urgency of the moment.

He was hooked to tubes and needed comfort. _I _needed comfort too, in my heart I was thirsting for it, and found it in reassuring my apprentice, in helping him rise from the unfamiliar bed. 

But now that he's released from the i.v. and bland hospital sheets, the unbroken flow of words has halted. Every attempt at conversation seems awkward, they jam up in my throat with sharp edges, and in the end, I swallow them down again. 

So my belly's churning as I key in the access code to our quarters.

We're home now.

And the obstacles--distractions--have been removed.

Obi-Wan has returned to his cage.

But it can't be the same. Bars must be sawed away, freedom must rush in like a burst of air.

My Padawan must be able to breathe again, to move again, without worrying that it will stop the breath of his Master, will still his Master's heart with dread.

I switch on the lights to a low level and walk Obi-Wan to the couch. 

He gratefully sits against the beaten cushion.

__

When will his weariness fade? I have to wonder, stepping back and looking at his sleep-creased face. _When will mine? _

I'm tempted to send him to bed. His exhaustion is so evident and--

__

I'll sit beside him again. We'll fall into the cycle again but this time, we'll fall further…he'll fall until no one will be able to catch him.

"Are you hungry?"

He smiles wanly. "No."

"Do you want some tea?"

He shakes his head.

I inhale, sinking beside him on the sofa. "Do you know how cruel you're being to your Master?"

He looks at me, and I see he doesn't catch the affection in my voice. He only hears the reprimand he perceives there to be. I pat his knee. 

"I wanted some way to be able to procrastinate." I explain. "I could brew the tea, I could wait for you to drink it…but I've put this off long enough." I lightly comb through the hair at the side of his head. "I think you know that…maybe better than I do."

Obi-Wan sits up straighter. "Master?"

I feel a jab in my chest at the trusting, vulnerable tone of the word. "Obi-Wan, I need to ask you something. And you must tell me the truth, no matter what."

He nods. 

His pallor has gone a little pale and I close my eyes, wishing I did not read such fear in my Padawan's face. "Why did you turn down the Chancellor's offer?"

Obi-Wan clears his throat. "I-I already told you--"

"I know what you _told _me. But I don't believe you."

His cheeks burn red.

"I'm not trying to be hostile with you. I just want you to tell me the truth."

His eyes break away from mine. "I knew it wouldn't be a good idea." He almost whispers. 

"Why?"

"Because…Because it would mean…" He shakes his head and leans forward, putting his hands over his face. 

I rub his back. "It's okay. "

He swallows with a click. "It's not okay." Without another word, in a desperate rush, he lays his head against my chest.

I wrap my arms around him. "It could be. It _can _be, Obi-Wan." A murmur, near his ear. "I know you're tired. After all of this, you should just be able to rest. I shouldn't keep you from that. You can sleep, my Padawan. And when you wake this time, we'll set everything right. It _will _be okay."

He's gone a moment later, and I know that I'm not being selfish in letting him. _He _needs the extra time.

We're together, Master and apprentice, and neither of us are running anymore. 


	27. The Wait of Dust

Twenty Seven: The Wait of Dust

The bandage around his arm is already beginning to fray. A thread dangles from the end, and I rub it between my fingers.

How many times has he been smarted by the blade, far worse than this superficial wound? I never gave it too much worry…Until I had already branded deeper wounds on his heart 

And now I know it can't be patched just once and be expected to heal. It will take layers of salve to mend. 

This is only the first. 

My head is leaned against the couch. As darkness encroaches, I feel a heaviness seep into my body. Something I've battled--and, maybe, can soon forfeit.

"Obi-Wan?"

He's awake. I haven't been able to gauge his level of consciousness very well as of late-he's been a superb actor-but I can sense the change in his breathing. "Obi-Wan, are you alright?"

After a moment, he nods and sits up, rubbing his face.

This happens often to me. I see him every day, direct most aspects of his life and training. And then I am, quite abruptly, confronted by a stranger. Someone vaguely familiar, but different in spirit. His face holds only the memory of his childhood.

I've been striving to stay in perpetual memory, cling to a past where there was ample time to accomplish all that I wanted to, for him to experience all that he should.

Obi-Wan is a man now.

He is not yet a Knight, but that will change, too.

And…I once had a heart, but I think that will be taken with him, as it always has.

For today, he _is _with me. For a few years more, I can feel my own heartbeat. So I should not halt it prematurely. My stupidity is driving him away, though in form he is beside me. 

"Obi-Wan, I don't want you to be afraid to tell me the truth."

He looks away. "I'm only afraid that I'll hurt you."

Barely a whisper, and I can feel a pang in that heart I possess. "I think it would hurt us far worse if you didn't tell me."

My Padawan sighs, studies his hands. "I didn't want you to have to say no. I knew it would be--an uncomfortable situation. All those people. And you had enough to worry about."

"I think you did too."

He shakes his head. "What did _I _have to worry about?"

"Oh, all you just described." I smile without much humor. "We've been trying to protect each other, but it's done more harm than I imagined."

"What do you mean?" 

"You know what I mean, Obi-Wan. When's the last time we've left the Temple?"

He doesn't answer.

"When's the last time you've had a good night's sleep?" I hesitate. "I've attended an appointment with Master Meelon."

His eyebrow lifts. I can see he's surprised and, beneath the exterior, mortified. "Master Meelon? The mind healer?"

"While you were with Mace. It was mandatory."

"_What?_" His eyes are gray, streaked with dread. "Why?"

"Because others were realizing what an effect all this was having on you. You're denying it now-I know you want to spare me-but life after your…return…hasn't been ideal, my Padawan. Far from it."

He shrugs, but the dust of Ejhlon isn't drifted to the air.

He wants to flee, as I did, but he's held in place. 

I know he wants to overcome this. Yet, at the start of the path, the trek seems so long, and he fears to replenish himself for the journey, he will be made to steal from me. And Obi-Wan would rather fail at the first pace than do that. 

It is something that has endeared him to me, while I must struggle to rid him of it. A trace of the sweet child that cannot linger in our Jedi-specific maturity.

"I know that nothing in life is perfect, the way you would precisely wish for it to be. 

"But there _are _some things-stepping outside, breathing fresh air, exploring the Gardens-that should be available to you as a natural freedom. Whether or not you were imprisoned. I took those away. It doesn't matter why. And because of that, I robbed you of so much more."

"But I understand why--"

I squeeze his shoulder. "My motivations shouldn't excuse me of my wrongs. Obi-Wan, I wanted to shield you from danger-it's all I've been able to think about-and because of that you didn't voice your concerns. 

"I still knew they existed. You were trying to tell me. Not in words, perhaps, but regardless, you were. On the balcony, in the lift…as you fell asleep the other day. I refused to listen. Now I _will _listen, Obi-Wan. I'm waiting to listen, but you won't say anything."

He proves me correct, sitting in silence for many moments, gazing at a landscape beyond that of the apartment, one composed of shadow, and with shades of uncertainty. 

__

What if I've affected him deeper than I thought? My stomach clenches up into an ice-rimed knot. 

"I didn't want to recite my speech because I didn't want you to worry. And I didn't see Garen at all when he was here, because I didn't want to leave you alone."

It's a physical blow to me, and I jerk back a little. "Why?" My voice is a croak. I'm not accusing.

I'm merely dumbfounded.

He stares into my face, and I see the temptation in his, to stop before he has begun, fall before a step can take him any further. "Because I was gone. F-For so long, and it didn't feel right to--abandon you." His expression is solemn. "I knew how tired you were."

I don't move. We're caught in a vacuum, without sound, and only this one, terrible truth is in existence between us. "How tired I was?"

"Yes."

My apprentice is a convincing actor. But, apparently, I am not.


	28. Living, Breathing, Souls

****

Twenty Eight: Living, Breathing, Souls

I'm not embarrassed.

There _are _situations that garner chagrin, of course-spilling a drink, tripping during a duel-but this is definitely not one of those instances. _This _is pitched far into a different category.

I'm not embarrassed by this discovery, that my Padawan was aware of my compulsive overprotection of him. No. It goes beyond that. 

By the gods, he KNEW, and carried it wordlessly within his heart for Force knows how long. I feel as though someone has just attempted to strangle me, throttling with tight, bruising fingers until I'm a breath away from death, and then, for some reason, releases me and leaves me gasping and choking and grabbing for my neck. I don't believe I'm capable of more than a sputter right now, but in another surprise twist of luck (or maybe not) I speak. "When…?"

Obi-Wan was prepared for more of a debate, I think. I'm sure he was predicting denial on my part, or at least a few more questions before a conclusion was made. His lips disappear into a fold. "I don't know. I, um, know that after I was brought back to the Temple we were more in tune with each other. And when I came home…It's difficult to determine. I knew you were keeping a close eye on me because of what happened. I guess it just took me a while to realize how worried you were. I knew you were tired. I could sense the unrest through the Force. Eventually, I couldn't escape it, and I suppose it was around then that I knew." He swallows. "And I knew, I _know,_ why you were there. "

I place an inexplicably calm hand on his arm. "I'm sorry, Obi-Wan. The months you were gone--it provided endless empty hours, and the mind can create some horrific scenarios when given that sort of time. Even after I had you back, those fears remained, ingrained so deep I couldn't let them go. I couldn't." I wait a moment, until our eyes are leveled and their energy, the unbridled, true emotion, is intertwined and purely connected. '"It wasn't enough for me to be in the next room, to have our minds open to each other. " I curl and uncurl my fingers. _Force help me . _"After all, I had taken precaution like that before, and it didn't stop you from being harmed. " 

His eyes flicker away from mine. 

I want to apologize again, drop to my knees and beg any shred of forgiveness he can grant me. I could wrap it around me, hold to it so that I can continue, knowing that at least a fraction of his heart has stayed loyal to me . 

Then his focus finds me once more, and a feeble smile ghosts past my face. "I don't want to put you through this, Padawan. I don't want you to fret over the same dangers I was."

"_No one _is safe from harm, Master." He says quietly. "As easily as I was taken, it could've been you."

__

It should've been me. I'll never stop believing that. 

"I'm not worried about what could happen to me. If that were so, I would turn in my saber now and spare myself the heart attack. "

A glimmer of humor, and I find a tiny spear of moisture in my eye. His jokes are always delivered in spontaneity, dry as the deserts. I had not forgotten this--I missed it dearly, but it became another sacrifice to me, in the quest for absolute security. I'm deliriously relieved that it wasn't lost. "I'm glad to hear that. It was a foreign notion to me."

I detect a small contortion of pain on his shadowed face. "You must've went through hell--all on your own."

I can't help but graze my touch along his jaw. "As did you. For countless nights, we were in the same room, but our hearts were separated. I thought that if I didn't sleep, and guarded you, you would be free of your nightmares. But it looks as though it worked oppositely. I pulled us both into a living nightmare."

"It wasn't' your fault." He responds instantly. "I allowed it to happen as much as you did. Instead of feigning sleep, I could've…I could've done _something_, said something. In the beginning, it was comforting to have you close. I was--completely--alone when I was imprisoned, and having another living, breathing soul nearby was what I needed for a long time. 

"But I," He exhales with obvious difficulty, "I felt like I couldn't…heal…if you were still in the same stage, needing to protect me in the same way. It was confining." He cards a hand through his hair. "I was…I was angry. I was frustrated that things weren't changing.

"But I knew I was damn lucky just to be home, to even be in your presence again. So I went along with what you wanted. Part of me wanted it too, I think."

I nod. "I didn't leave you alone when you were in the healers. I stayed with you, and that's where…" I cough into my hand. "That's where the interdependence began. And may be why you never voiced your concerns."

"I needed you then." He whispers.

I squeeze his hand. "And I needed you. I needed to let the full extent of your return sink in. But I should've given you time to adjust on your own. It wouldn't have been easy--but it would've prevented so much."

His grip is strong, and his hand is warm. After the monumental chill in our lives, I don't let go.

"As you said, Master, nothing can go precisely as it should."

I narrow my eyes at his grin. "I should never underestimate your cheekiness." My tone softens. "Or your ability to heap every trouble upon yourself, even those that don't belong to you. Although I _am _supremely grateful that you cared enough to do that."

"With all you had to worry about, it wasn't much for me to do. It was merely complacency."

"And I _never _want you to withhold your feelings again, Padawan." There's a mild degree of reprimand. "You shouldn't have much trouble with _that._ Usually, you can debate me until we're both blue in the face."

A faint blush stirs in his pallor. "If you don't mind me saying, I prefer to debate with someone who hasn't just taken a months-long sabbatical from rest."

There's immeasurable sympathy in his eyes and in his words. "I could say the same to you." I murmur with a smile. "Obi-Wan, I'm…I'm sorry I never allowed you to talk about Ejhlon. It was _incredibly _selfish of me. And I'm sorry I didn't allow you to go to the Gardens--or anywhere else. I didn't mean to blow every little thing out of proportion. In my mind, little things were enormous, and had so much more weight and consequence than they did before." I brush over the bandage. "But I understand now, that by trying to prevent the little things, I'm holding you back from experiencing life." I brace his face with my hands. 

"It will be gradual, but life _will _change for us. We'll have to be patient, and remember each other's individual perspectives, but in the end, it will happen."

Rain has descended down my apprentice's cheeks. I rub a few droplets away with my thumb, and a scant moment later, he returns the favor. 


	29. As It Should Be

**__**

Thanks to ewan's girl, Athena Leigh _and _**immortal grace** for your lovely reviews.

Twenty Nine: As It Should Be

I knew it was inevitable. When you declare your intention to change, to do what it takes to begin that aforementioned journey, eventually you will have to live up to your words. Carry out your promises.

Hm. I suppose that leads to the infamous 'easier said than done' maxim.

Discarded dinner containers sit on the table beside drained mugs of tea. The credits of a largely neglected film scroll down the holoscreen. The room has settled into a scene of faded evening, as tired minds follow suit and fall slowly away from the moon's glow, toward morning.

There will be the long stretch of night between. Each minute masquerading as an hour, and every hour slouching, making itself at home and slipping off its dark shoes for a visit.

As much as I'm sure it enjoys company, Obi-Wan is already asleep, sprawled out on the armchair with his legs dangling over the side. 

I move sluggishly from the couch and switch off the projector. A restless sort of silence takes up occupation. The noise of my steps, my breath, are exaggerated without their normal competition of chatter or doors closing. 

I glance around the room, at its less-than-stellar appearance--and plop back down on the sofa. A voice inside me, that oddly resembles the soft lilting tone of Meelon, urges me to do what is natural: surrender to sleep, set my weapon, my unadulterated consciousness, aside. It is what will seal this dark chasm in our lives, and allow us to walk away, toward a brighter horizon. 

But hers is not the only opinion I hear. The part of me that remembers a state of cold mechanical existence and overloaded plugs and rigid schedule is screaming now, screaming with razored desperation. It pleads for open eyes and numerous inspections of the window locks. It tingles with an anxiousness that has remained sharp in memory. 

I press a hand to my forehead. _I told him it would be different. I CANNOT lie to him. _He would be awake now, monitoring me as closely as I have monitored him, but I assured him my exhaustion would bring me plenty of sleep tonight. That Ejhlon's phantoms would not control me any longer. 

Walking over to the chair, I take in the sight of my apprentice, finally reunited with his own version of peace. 

I sit on the side of the couch and reach out to run my fingers through the short tail at the back of his head. _He'll be gone. To knighthood. To a Padawan of his own, one day._

"As it should be." I barely say aloud. 

The machine-marked voice tells me I'm a betrayer. It takes in the precious gift that's been returned to me, and doesn't want to entertain the notion of letting go. It doesn't care about Obi-Wan's future in the Order, or the fulfillment of the incredible potential his parents sacrificed their role in his life to ensure. 

All it sees, in its jaded and selfish periphery, is the person who provided meaning where there was an aching, pitted void, harmony where there was only dismal echo. 

A light that pushed its way, gently and without motive, through the darkness. 

I hate that voice…Because it speaks for my heart, when I must act with my head. It threatens to reveal that perhaps I haven't learned the volumes I claim I have--and I am the same foolish old man who stood in Obi-Wan's doorframe his first night home. 

I drape a quilt over him, and am galvanized that my hands do not shake. I study his relaxed features and I… I realize who I would be betraying by foregoing sleep tonight.

With a heavy breath, "Good night, Obi-Wan."

I recline on the sofa. My back isn't used to the comfort and neither is my mind. Immediately the worries pounce at me. 

__

What am I doing? For gods' sake, don't I remember what happened last time? My body very nearly squirms on the soft cushions. 

But my eyes, with supreme difficulty, stay closed. And a new gallery of recollected images are opened to my thoughts. Obi-Wan's face as he collapsed. The disillusioned cast of his eyes when I refused a simple walk through flower beds. 

__

And what about the crush of his spirit---when he is reassigned a Master? 

I release the tension of my limbs and lay down again. 

It isn't long before the extreme abuse begins to wear away at my awareness. I drift from a clear level toward muddier waters. Strange half-thoughts and persistent concern, until I come to a place of soothing deepness and a lulling weight, without feeling, pulling and pulling, until….


	30. Conclusion

****

Thirty: A Calm, Awakening

Warmth soaks my face and I turn away, pressing it against the plush softness of…the couch? 

I sit up in a rush. 

__

Obi-Wan? 

My heart seems to have relocated to my ears. Pounding.

__

When did I…how…

I almost expect to see the rumpled blankets and thrown pillow I woke to the last time I slept so soundly.

But then I blink, and recognize the surroundings of our quarters. 

My stomach unbinds. I exhale and sit back against the couch. The quilt I had covered Obi-Wan with is now over my legs. I smooth my hand over the thick stitching and I smile. 

__

Obi-Wan. 

Thirty One: Disappearance of Shadows

"Come on!" I try to sound stern, but amusement colors my voice. I'm standing at the door, waiting to leave. 

It's been a few weeks since I was first able to lower the extreme defenses I had erected for my Padawan. It hasn't been an easy or painless experience, there are still moments when I'm compelled to spend the night on that lonely chair beside his bed, but I have survived, and things are continuously improving. 

More importantly, Obi-Wan is smiling again.

"Wouldn't it be a _shame _if I left you here?!"

"_Alright!_" He comes bounding into the living room, tying his sash, damp hair dripping on his forehead. "You seem to be in a hurry."

"Well, I think we've both waited long enough." I rub my palm against the top of his head. "Besides, I want to get there before it's clogged with all manner of ingrates. "

Obi-Wan laughs. 

I move to touch his head again--to comb out the mussed strands, then cup his cheek. 

The shadows have disappeared from beneath his eyes. 

And his gaze has never been quite so beautiful. As when he enters the Gardens, his Master at his side, and the orange flush of morning tinting the sky.

__

The End. 

**That's it folks! A companion piece from Obi-Wan's POV, entitled 'The Threat of Waking' should be up in a couple of days. It's already well under way!**

Thanks to those who were kind enough to read and review! I deeply appreciate it. 


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